Mass Effect: Absolution
by Patient131071
Summary: Sequel to Vindication. Commander Thaddaeus Shepard, N7 Black Ops assassin: just who did he have to kill to gain the attention of the Council's Spectres? Perhaps the shorter answer would be to the question 'who DIDN'T he kill'...
1. Thanatos

I don't own BioWare, etc etc.

* * *

Mass Effect: Absolution

Thanatos

Thaddaeus Shepard wasn't... comfortable. That was putting it mildly, really. He was, in actuality, so very uncomfortable with his current situation that he was looking for even the slightest hint of malignant intent in the room around him, happy to use it as an excuse to reach out and rip the laboratory, its contents, and those within it, to shreds-with his mind if he had to, although he knew that he'd be suffering from migraines and weeping blood for weeks afterwards...

That was assuming, of course, that he managed to successfully fight his way off of the base filled with the Alliance's very best operatives, steal some form of transport in order to escape the almost entirely uninhabited planet the base was on, and drop off of the galaxy's radar without having it all curtailed by an unfortunate shot to the face. He didn't like the odds, which was one reason why he was sitting here at all, but he would at least attempt do so with no uncertain amount of relish if the scientists that intended to poke and prod at his brain and central nervous system seemed to do anything beyond their remit.

This was also why he had refused sedation or any form of anaesthetic, a decision which some parts of him were currently regretting, although the rest of him was more than capable of shouting those pathetic fools down.

He was in a Magnetic Resonance Imager, or MRI, which wasn't the reason for the pain in and of itself, the scanning procedure was harmless, although it was somewhat cramped and Thaddaeus had never liked being restricted as far as his movements were concerned. No, the reason for the pain was the stimuli that the scientists were using to observe the reactions in his brain and his CNS (central nervous system), in order to attempt to understand his biotic abilities.

That was the other reason why Shepard was willing to lie in the machine and allow himself to be experimented on; his biotic abilities were somewhat unconventional. Rather than having actual nodes of element zero in his body that he could use to manipulate gravitational fields and dark energy via his nervous system, the 'eezo' was present in his very DNA, due to a highly improbable genetic mutation. While unusual, what was more peculiar was the fact that, for reasons that were what the scientists were trying to ascertain, for the first two decades of his life, Thaddaeus had never been able to consciously use his biotics, instead using them as a crutch in more or less everything he did, and, for most of the time, entirely unaware that he was doing it.

Recently, however, that had changed. He had been on the planet of Elysium, awaiting his court martial for some apparently 'unorthodox and unethical' things he had done whilst on the Torfan raid, which had earned him the irritatingly inaccurate nickname of 'Butcher', when batarian mercenaries, slavers and privateers launched a vengeance raid on the colony at the behest of their vengeful government. Shepard, naturally, had managed to persuade his captors (eventually) that the adage 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend' was appropriate here, and went on to ensure his survival and save a good number of civilians, finally culminating in a fight against a force fifty strong when he was (as far as the Alliance knew at least) entirely alone. During the fight, with his back to the wall, Shepard had managed to use his biotics consciously to inflict a massive brain haemorrhage on a foe, but had in return suffered nigh-cataclysmic pain in his skull, as well as bleeding copiously out of his eyes and nose; he had no intention of doing anything of the sort again until he understood his abilities and their limits, even if that meant being experimented on in a lab.

Of course, his survival had been facilitated throughout the debacle by the Cerberus Operative Miranda Lawson, with whom he had been intending to take his leave of the planet and join her organisation. Again. And again, of course, someone had interfered at the last possible moment; David Anderson of the N7 Marines, at the behest of Admiral Hackett, at the suggestion of Shepard's _other_ hidden benefactor, Henry Lawson.

The two had had an uneasy and indirect association that Shepard would rather have been without; there had been hostilities between him and Lawson's men, however, instead of ending Thaddaeus' fifteen year existence when the man had had the chance, Lawson had instead offered to spare him as long as he went to work for the Alliance, with whom Cerberus acted unofficially as a black ops agency, although things were becoming complicated in that relationship now that Cerberus was being labelled a xenophobic terrorist organisation.

In any case, Lawson had suggested, and Hackett agreed, that Shepard was simply too valuable a resource to waste if he survived the hostilities, and that the conflict provided a perfect opportunity to remove him from the public eye.

And so, Corporal Thaddaeus Shepard, the Butcher of Torfan, was martyred as a hero, and whisked away by Anderson to work for the N7's covert ops division in return for clean records under the same name.

The training had been a mere formality that Shepard had simply breezed through, having already been a killer for over a decade. Then came the necessary evaluation of his biotics, first observing their subconscious use, then the more conventional equivalent.

The pains in his limbs, head and torso, both chemical and genuine, finally ceased, and a voice spoke over the speaker from the observation room.

"Shepard; we need you to access your biotics consciously."

It was somewhat more difficult than it had been on Elysium; the life and death situation had added urgency to the process that facilitated his efforts, whilst now he was in controlled, 'safe' circumstances. Recalling the process, he battled to tune out the endless thudding of the MRI, closed his eyes against the harsh white glare of the laboratory lights, and attempted to focus his brain.

Frustration built as his efforts had no effect; there was no pain in his skull, no building feeling of charge in his body. He needed a target, something to concentrate on, something to focus his attentions.

The scientists knew better than to offer encouragement; he had explained to them in graphic terms that very few could actually have understood just what would be the result if they managed to irritate or inconvenience him in any way.

He massaged his temples, knowing he wasn't supposed to move during the scan but at this point not caring, fighting an irrational desire to cause some destruction, to wreck this machine and its lab and its occupants for wasting his time-

He opened his eyes. The pain was there, mounting in the front of his skull, the first indication of progress. He grinned slightly, and realised he could taste a metallic tang in his mouth, brought his hand away from the temple and focussed on it, and watched as it seemed to burst into blue flame.

"Excellent!" A scientist exclaimed over the intercom. "That concludes our business here, Shepard, you can leave the machine."

The thudding of the scanner ceased, and Shepard was drawn back out of the machine, his hand still glowing with a fierce intensity, reflecting his craving for release. Not knowing of any other way to relax his grip, with a forceful gesture he thrust his hand out at the door to the lab, and watched as it crumpled, before doubling up in agony at the backlash within his skull, feeling moisture flowing from his eyes and the taste of his own blood coming to the fore in his mouth. He swallowed, and staggered upright, before managing to make his way, unaided but not unescorted (he wasn't trusted just yet, particularly after that little gesture) back to his quarters.

* * *

He failed to get more than four hours of sleep, as with most nights, instead lying in the dark, listening to music, an interest he had cultivated during the three years Henry Lawson had held him until he was of the necessary age to join the Alliance. His tastes varied widely, and fluctuated somewhat with his state of mind, but that night Saint-Saëns appealed most, the complex, somehow gleefully insidious melodies rippling through his brain, leaving him in a meditative state that was never quite as restful as actual sleep, but allowed him to function.

Late in the morning, he was escorted by a pair of somewhat apprehensive security personnel from his room, though the network of corridors, towards the operations centres in the base. Shepard's identity was apparently common unofficial knowledge throughout the base, something that didn't surprise him; amongst the best the Alliance had to offer, particularly in the covert operations division, there had to be at least one deviant individual with a habit of viewing information that he didn't have authorisation to access. And of course, if there hadn't been before, there certainly was now.

His guards gestured for the psychopath to enter through a door to his left; he raised an eyebrow and complied, finding himself in a somewhat unremarkable office, with an aging man behind the desk, a glass of what was presumably some variety of spirit before him. He appeared to be in his sixties, with short but mildly unkempt grey hair, a wide jaw, short, carefully trimmed facial hair around his mouth, thin, pale lips that were quirked in a slight smile and grey-blue eyes that gleamed speculatively as they watched Thaddaeus enter.

"Shepard, my dear fellow." He greeted the younger man in a slight Irish accent, gesturing to the chair opposite. "Take a seat. Major Michael Hogan; I'll be acting as your commanding officer."

Thaddaeus took the seat offered, vaguely impressed with the affable efficiency by which the man had carefully taken control of the situation, in a way that didn't give him an opportunity to respond.

"The scientists have reported back on the results of your scans." Hogan informed him. "Quite frankly it's fascinating stuff, Shepard; useful genetic mutation in this day and age-well, I don't need to tell you just how incredible that is. Even with the results of the scans, we're moving in uncharted territory, and the boys tell me they've been having to resort for the most part to educated guesses, but from that we've got a good idea of your situation."

"As you know, as opposed to having element zero concentrated in nodes around your body, it's been distributed evenly throughout your body in your DNA as the result of random genetic mutation. This, of course, means that potentially, even despite the fact that implants are essentially useless in your case, you could be the most powerful biotic in the galaxy, rivalling even the pompous asari, due to the sheer quantity of eezo in your system, as well as the fact that potentially all of it can be harnessed due to its even distribution. However, this has resulted in a rather significant issue."

"As the first stage in a new genetic leap in human evolution, your body hasn't entirely adapted to the changes. Your subconscious use of biotics is essentially the result of element zero being activated as a result of actions ingrained in muscle memory, which is reflexive and often bypasses the brain entirely, operating solely via the central nervous system, meaning the element zero in your brain isn't activated as a result, so you can use biotics as a crutch to your heart's content."

"However, when you begin to use biotics consciously, which you were forced to do during the events on Elysium, you activate the element zero in your brain as well as in the area you wish to manipulate, which results in the harmful side effects you've been experiencing, which correlate directly to the amount of power you expend. Thus, I regret to inform you, excessive conscious use of your biotics could result in irrevocable brain damage and death."

Shepard digested the information. It wasn't much of a surprise; he'd hypothesised that something along these lines might be the case, however, it had been necessary to know where he stood for certain. Curiosity, however, prompted him to inquire "I was under the impression that all asari are latent biotics as a result of a similar genetic mutation. How did they avoid similar problems?"

Hogan pursed his lips thoughtfully, and took a sip from his glass. "As I said, this is all theoretical, but it seems that through a fortunate secondary genetic mutation, their DNA became differentiated if it was intended to become neural tissue, resulting in a lack of eezo that allows them conscious use of their biotics, but also seems to prevent them from the subconscious use you demonstrate as a side effect."

"Some people have all the luck." Shepard commented wryly.

Hogan leaned forward in his chair, gesturing thoughtfully with the glass. "There _are_ schools of thought that have put forward the hypothesis that it _wasn't_ luck, but design. Not a deity, of course." He hastened to add as Shepard quirked an eyebrow. "Protheans."

"Entirely possible." Shepard conceded. "Though their motives will remain a mystery, I suppose..."

Hogan nodded. As an intelligence officer, and a damned good one, his sense of curiosity was acute, and leaving it dissatisfied wasn't a habit of his; which was why he dealt in espionage, not history or philosophy.

"Well, now to the main business of the day. As you no doubt expect, you qualified for N7 designation with no trouble whatsoever, however, as formalities go it was an important one in order to build up a convincing past for you that won't result in any... unsavoury allegations. You will be operating under my command, as I have already informed you, and as I'm sure you'll be happy to hear, you won't be expected to work alongside any other operatives. In fact, given the trend that your former comrades followed, and your unfortunate level of notoriety, your primary directive is to operate alone."

Shepard's lips quirked in a satisfied smirk, one that Hogan mirrored as he continued. "As such, I'm bestowing upon you the rank of Lieutenant Commander, in order to facilitate autonomy in the field and give you the requisite level of authority to access Alliance resources to facilitate your operations. Congratulations, Commander Shepard. I'm sure that you'll be happy to hear that a jump from Corporal to Lieutenant Commander is unprecedented."

The mirrored smirks grew wider. "So, the only remaining issue to deal with before you become a fully functioning N7 is to give you an operational designation. Any suggestions?"

"Samael." Shepard supplied without hesitation, openly grinning now; the Major's company was rather enjoyable, to say the least.

"An apt choice; the angel of death, harbinger of destruction, and as often a demon as an angel. I'm afraid it's taken, however." Shepard's grin shrank, somewhat. "Now, Shepard. You're a thoroughly interesting fellow in my view, and in many ways unique. But you're not alone. There are at least two other individuals in the universe to whom you could metaphorically be related, at least in your approach and attitudes, and one of them works for me, which is why you've been placed under my command. He is Operative Samael. However, I believe I can suggest an acceptable alternative; 'Thanatos'."

Thanatos. The very embodiment of death in Greek mythology; not a major player, more of an enigma, but undeniably the being with the largest body count, even if he had been outwitted once or twice...

All in all, it was rather appropriate. Shepard inclined his head in deference to Hogan's suggestion. The Irishman's lips quirked again, but he didn't move to input the details into the database; Shepard realised he'd known he would consent. He shook his head wryly, realising he had a very definite foil for his intellect in his new commanding officer.

"You mentioned two individuals that share certain aspects of my personality." He said carefully. "May I enquire as to the identity of the other?"

"You may indeed. Why, he's the man I'm sending you to kill..."

* * *

Author note: My apologies for a few distortions of scientific reality, if anyone was meticulous enough to spot them. However, the fact that you're reading science fiction at all means that you're willing to sacrifice some plausibility for a decent story, which, I hope you'll agree, I am providing.

Whether you agree or not, there's a rather large button beneath this segment of text that enables you to tell me about it; use it. Please?


	2. Charon

Charon

"I assume you've heard the official reports of various outbreaks of highly virulent diseases appearing on various human colonies throughout Alliance space?" Hogan enquired. Shepard nodded in response, watching the Major intently.

"I was under the impression that each incident was anomalous and separate." He replied. "I assume that the press weren't given access to all available information."

"Correct." The Irishman confirmed. "Analysis of the pathogens showed signs that they were all engineered for maximum potency against human anatomy, and resistant to all but the most expensive medical treatments; clearly more than a coincidence."

"Terrorism or military strikes?" If so, the Salarians were the most likely possibility, given the genophage, however, that could be simple misdirection; whoever was responsible clearly didn't lack intelligence or resources.

"Terrorism; and not an organisation. One human. Male. Your target." Hogan stated, adding the last sentence somewhat unnecessarily. Shepard frowned.

"Unlikely that a lone operator could gain access to the requisite resources to stage such attacks. And how do you know who he is, or that he even is a lone operator?"

"We have surveillance footage of him releasing the agent on Shanxi; he was alone, and, charting his movements on the colony, he never made contact with anyone. He landed on a private vessel that transpired to be stolen, and commandeered a different craft for his departure. It was found abandoned on Illium. These are not the tactics of a man affiliated with an organisation of the resources required to carry out such strikes, especially not strikes against such militarily and politically insignificant targets."

"Then there are two possible motives for the strikes; to gain someone's attention, or as tests, either of enemy efficiency or one's own equipment. Or both." Shepard observed aloud.

Hogan nodded appreciatively. "Just so."

Shepard, however, wasn't finished. "And yet, you wouldn't have brought me in yet unless you had not just an identity, but a location. So the databases can't be completely devoid of his presence."

"Rather the opposite. The databases have turned up dozens of matching identities thus far, yet none of them have stood up to scrutiny; all were faked, with false information stolen from other files and compiled at random. However, there was one file that had no information at all. All of it had been deleted apart from the face and the biometric data, and the name had been substituted with one word; Charon."

Charon, pronounced** '**kair'-uhn', meaning of keen, fierce or feverish gaze; the ferryman in Greek mythology, tasked with transporting mortals that had expired into Hades, the realm of the dead. Son of Erebus, the dark, and Nyx, the night, and, oddly enough, brother of Thanatos.

Thaddaeus remained impassive, merely raised an eyebrow at Hogan in realisation of his pun, although inwardly he did appreciate the forward thinking nature of the machination, however, it wouldn't do to inadvertently give the impression that he approved of such things. Not that he expected it to make any difference...

"As for his location, we found him this morning, when he arrived on Terra Nova via commercial transport. Planetary control were instructed to let him through; they wouldn't have been able to apprehend him if his actions are any indication of his competence, and he would simply have caused even more damage, and probably released the pathogen before we could put someone onto his case more suited to dealing with him."

"Then either he's been lucky in his previous operations, or this is part of a larger strategy. Otherwise, you never would have been able to ascertain his identity, and 'Charon' wouldn't even be in your databases. You'd never have caught him landing on Terra Nova, and you'd be in no position to stop him."

"We know." Hogan said, showing the first faint signs of unease. "Your transport leaves in half an hour, Shepard. You'll be planetside within twelve hours; in the meantime the Alliance is discreetly screening all craft leaving the planet to make sure he doesn't slip away. Stop him from releasing the bio weapon if you can, but your priority is to eliminate this 'Charon'. Whatever it takes, you do it."

Shepard nodded an acknowledgement, rose to leave. Hogan mirrored the action, and proffered his hand. "Good luck, Commander. I've an inkling that for a change, you may need it."

* * *

Twelve hours later, Operative Thanatos blinked in the sudden light of the noon sun as he stepped out of his shuttle into the fierce heat of the main spaceport of Terra Nova's capital, Scott, a name that Shepard had responded to with evident disdain.

He wore lightweight, flexible carbon composite Onyx armour, without a helmet, underneath his trenchcoat that was sufficiently slim to avoid attracting attention as something other than ordinary clothing, with a stripped down and streamlined Karpov pistol in an armpit holster on his left side that was entirely invisible beneath the coat. Pockets on the inside of the coat contained combat knives that were balanced for projectile use.

In the black titanium case dangling from his left hand resided a human variant of the turian Kuwashii marksman visor, as well as a lightweight gas mask and his Lighting Strike sniper rifle, christened Extinction Level Event, or ELE, disassembled of course.

Ignoring the heat in the knowledge that he would shortly be in the shade of the heavily urbanised capital, Thaddaeus walked to meet the Alliance officer that had been ordered to greet him and escort him off of the base in a way that would avoid attracting attention. Despite the fact that the Butcher was still fresh in people's minds, the man didn't comment on the psychopath's identity.

_One of Hogan's contacts, in all likelihood..._

A sky car left him a minute's walk away from the public transport system's main hub in the city; one of the most likely targets for a strike involving an airborne pathogen. Shepard made his way towards it, blending with the crowds and watching the upper levels as well as scanning the streets for his target; a Caucasian human male, with brown hair, most commonly slickly combed out of his face with a left parting in the databases, and blue eyes that _did_ conform to the suggestion his chosen name gave, with a sculpted face that was conventionally handsome and, to Shepard's eye, almost certainly the result of extensive surgical alterations to his appearance.

At least, that was what about half of his conscious brain was concentrating on. The other half was considering the fact that this assignment of his was complicated for reasons other than the enigmatic target's unknown motivations and therefore unpredictability.

There were safer ways to deal with this situation, and he and Hogan both knew it. If they'd caught Charon disembarking on Terra Nova, the planetary security force's heavy presence at all ports meant that at the very least they ought to be able to contain one terrorist, however competent. Furthermore, if they caught him disembarking, in all probability they had caught him _boarding_ the transport, as well. Which meant that they had been afforded the opportunity to divert or board the transport and apprehend him with low risk of collateral damage, and hadn't taken it.

So this was just as much a test for Shepard as the Alliance's delayed arrival on Elysium, this time not testing his capabilities so much as his loyalty, in a way that was relatively low risk and high reward. If Shepard failed or transpired to be untrustworthy, the Alliance's blockade could contain the situation and then move in to deal with Charon themselves; despite the fact that Terra Nova had the largest population of any human colony, there was, as Shepard had cynically pointed out, no real shortage of his species in the galaxy, on top of which, an airborne biological weapon only threatened organics, not valuable, expensive infrastructure.

Of course, this was probably almost entirely Hogan, perhaps with authorisation from Hackett; most of the Alliance would balk at such a scenario, yet Shepard couldn't but admire their callous pragmatism; if he turned out to be trustworthy, he would be a far more valuable asset that what they stood to lose if he wasn't.

And of course, their move was entirely understandable, as in the event that he received a better offer, Shepard would jump ship without hesitation, although he _would_ give whether it actually _was_ a better offer careful thought. However, that wasn't what was conventionally described as 'loyalty', which Shepard understood to mean personalised altruism, which was entirely irrational.

Shepard put it almost entirely out of his mind and concentrated on observing without making himself conspicuous; if Charon was here, he'd be watching for the enemy.

And yet, there was no sign of the man, not on the ground at least. Thaddaeus made his way to the very centre of the hub, gliding through the crowds of civilians as if they didn't exist, and turned three hundred and sixty degrees, slowly, focussing on the balconies and upper floors, looking for any sign of the target, and, frustratingly, finding none.

_This is absurd. I don't even know what pathogen he'll use so I can judge the most efficient location for distribution myself-even his appearance could have been changed in the time it took for me to get here..._

Then, something caught his eye. An isolated spot of heat haze on an upper balcony, where the air had produced a small convection current with sufficient energy to disrupt the passage of photons through it, entirely unrelated to the mission, although he wondered idly what the heat source was, since the hub was indoors, which made solar radiation an unlikely option, despite it being the most common cause-

Except the shimmer in the air was _moving_, traversing the balcony in a way that was impossible or at least absurdly improbable in natural circumstances. It was a long way away, and the assassin was only too aware that the human brain had an irritating habit of seeing patterns and meaning where there was none, yet it looked like the shimmering effect was vaguely man-shaped...

_And it might even be possible, especially for someone like me with obvious scientific expertise, demonstrated by the tailored pathogens this 'Charon' has already produced..._

Shepard moved, slipping through the chaotic swarms of oblivious people, attempting to keep the anomaly in his line of sight, before reaching the edge of the hub, lined with shops all selling the same generic crap that merchants had been peddling for centuries. Pausing to consider for a brief moment, he continued into the nearest one, a newsagents, strode straight through the shop and through a door marked 'Private', used by suppliers and leading into the back corridors of the hub, which, according to the navigation programme on his Omni tool, led to the upper levels.

Aware of the surveillance, Shepard ran an interference broadcast on the microcomputer, and half-ran quietly through the corridors, listening for signs of the approach of a third party, or, most inconveniently, security, who, ever paranoid of terrorist activity, would likely apprehend him for the best part of a day until they were happy that his story had been verified, during which time someone would probably grow curious as to why he looked so much like the late Thaddaeus Shepard, which could lead to an awkward situation. Plastic surgery might have been a good idea, if he'd ever been willing to go under the knife-

Shepard almost didn't hear the footsteps until it was too late, managed to slow his pace to a fast walk, and hide his Omni tool, unable to do anything other than appear to belong, before a security guard turned a corner right in front of him from a perpendicular corridor, presumably going to check on the numerous camera malfunctions. He didn't give the psychopath more than a cursory glance before continuing past him. Shepard called up the map on his microcomputer again-

"Excuse me, sir?"

_I __**definitely**__ don't have time for this-_

Shepard paused, put down his metal case, and slowly began to turn towards the guard, in the process discreetly drawing a knife from one of the internal pockets of his coat, before, as he finished his turn, accelerating the movement and sending his arm lashing out, sending the knife whirling into the man's throat, giving him no more than a second before he died, the only reaction a look of shock and horror on his face. Shepard directed an electrical surge at the camera overlooking the corridor, causing it to malfunction more permanently, and buy him more time before the alarm was raised, at which point if necessary, he'd be able to blame Charon. Then, he turned away, picked up his case, and hurried on to try to intercept what almost _had _to be Charon.

In the stairwell, outside the door to the level on which he'd seen the shimmer, he hastily donned the visor, which had a heads-up display that would allow him to zoom in on images without having to draw attention to himself by looking down the scope of a sniper rifle, then moved out through the door-

And came face to face with his target, the man who had designated himself 'Charon', wearing matt black body armour everywhere but on his head, instead covering his mouth and nose with a matching rebreather. And with two pistols in thigh holsters, hands loitering in their vicinity with a sinister suggestion.

"Welcome, brother."


	3. Sibling Rivalry

A/N: sorry for the delay; I kept having difficulty with how exactly to write this chapter. In future, I think I'll try to maintain at least one update every three days.

* * *

Sibling Rivalry

"Forgive the cliché; but I've been expecting you." _English accent, although with the muffling effect of the mask I doubt I could authenticate whether it's genuine or not..._

"I thought as much. Flattering that you would go to such lengths to get in touch with me."

"How could I not? Scipio met Hannibal, after all; you made me in much the same way."

"Not a brilliant metaphor; Scipio was the defender of the Roman civilisation, Hannibal the one intending to bring it down. Although, historically, there isn't really a suitable alternative."

"My conclusion exactly. Furthermore, in some ways, you're Scipio; here to eliminate the threat to your organisation, and I'm attempting to dissuade you. Moreover, with any luck, this won't end in the same way. We don't have to be enemies."

"Make me an offer. I'll deliberate and tell you how you can improve it."

Charon remained impassive, although Shepard thought he heard a faint undercurrent of irritation in the man's muffled and filtered voice, arriving with greater ease than the assassin would have expected in someone who claimed to be his pupil. "You're assuming that you're the only one with leverage here, Shepard."

"And if you've studied my personality, and understood that it's like yours, you'll know that I don't care any more for the civilians you threaten than you do. And death threats seem a little impolite, since the outcome will remain uncertain until one of us is dead. By the way, how long have you been following my career? Because if you only decided to emulate me because of the Torfan incident; that would be a little disappointing..."

"You don't remember me? I'm _hurt..._" The terrorist's hand twitched as if he had been going to clutch at his heart mockingly, as Shepard himself had done in the past, but the appendage remained within dangerous proximity of his right thigh holster, instead. _Self control, check, sardonic humour, check..._

"But then, that wouldn't really be surprising; you were focussed on threats back in the orphanage, and I didn't have enough to do with you to register, I suppose. Aloysius Walker (pronounced 'Allo-wishus'). You certainly registered with me. A kindred spirit; someone superior to those dreary plebeian people shuffling around doing nothing of significance, training themselves for their future lives... In any case, we both had our solutions to the boredom. You killed and then ran off to London to become Ombre, whilst I immersed myself in science, as much as was safe, and moved on when I was eighteen, committed a few acts of electronic theft to fund my research, and, lo and behold, a few years later you reappeared in the Alliance databases, which are depressingly easy to hack. I watched as you dealt with Torfan, nice work by the way, although getting caught was a little sloppy of you; had my own scheme in place to get you out of the court martial if necessary, then heard just about simultaneously that you'd been killed on Elysium and a Thaddaeus Shepard had been admitted into the N7 marine programme. At that point, I felt we should meet. Discuss a few things."

_Plausible scenario; most are unaware of my time as Ombre..._

"As I said; make me an offer."

"Partnership. Come with me, and I'll show you everything I've discovered, including the cloaking device, amongst other things that I have no doubt you'll find interesting; you can share your tricks with me."

"Aside from the issue of how to get off planet when you must know that the Alliance is screening all traffic, and the fact that I should think you know all of my tricks if you've been watching me so closely, what's your agenda? What do you need my help with?"

"I don't _need_ your help; however, it would certainly make life easier having you on my side instead of trying to kill me. And as for my goal, I want what so many of us want, but only we happy few can attain. Meaning. And there's only one way to do that in a world where entropy always wins, in a world where everything you do is doomed to destruction and therefore doesn't matter. Only one thing lasts."

_Morbid philosophy, check..._

"Entropy itself. Chaos. Matter's natural state. And so, I cordially invite you to help me encourage the process."

Shepard blinked, the only indication of his surprise. _Nihilism. Well, that's new..._

He sighed with exaggerated disappointment and regret, although he did feel a little; the prospect of two of himself running rings around the galaxy had been an entertaining one, he _did_ have to admit.

"And here I was, hoping we could be friends... Sorry, but, the idea of destroying civilisation doesn't appeal unless you're going to replace it with something that will function in a similar fashion. See, there are perks to civilisation. Food, alcohol, and the occasional bit of decent entertainment from those few individuals out there that aren't entirely talentless and brain-dead, even if most of them are long deceased. And if you're being even more literal and intending to try to destroy the galaxy itself, then not only are you overly ambitious, but you're also mentally unstable and not working in my interests..."

"You _like_ this pathetic excuse for a world?" Walker said with mixed incredulity and contempt.

"Not as such, but I'd rather have it than not. I live here too, after all. I can't fault your philosophical argument, but meaning really doesn't mean as much to me as pleasure, which is difficult enough without being dead."

"You fear death." Walker concluded, apparently having trouble understanding thought processes that weren't his own. Shepard could understand that, and not just from an intellectual perspective; apparently the terrorist didn't have as much practice at dealing with people as he did. His first advantage.

"You're trying to treat me like everyone else all of a sudden; you should know that's not wise. And I don't fear death, it's inevitable and there is no point getting worked up about it. But neither will I welcome or encourage it, rather the opposite. Like I say, it's hard to enjoy yourself when you're dead, and when everyone else is a superiority complex is harder to maintain. Sorry old boy, but our interests just don't seem to coincide."

"You have no idea how sorry I am to hear that." The terrorist said, hands creeping ever closer to the holsters in which his weapons resided.

"I think I've a notion." Shepard replied blandly, his own right hand moving slowly up towards the sidearm beneath his coat-

Walker's move to draw suddenly accelerated, yet Shepard reacted immediately, and, being more experienced in combat, his draw was quicker, allowing him to clip off two rounds into the terrorist's face, causing the man's kinetic barriers to shudder, but not fall as the assassin had expected; clearly the man had made some modifications to his shields along with almost everything else.

Less than a second later, however, Aloysius' own weapons were raised and spraying an automatic barrage of bullets that smashed into Shepard's own significantly weaker barriers, bringing them to dangerously low strength almost immediately, causing Shepard to cast the case in his left hand at his rival, stopping some of the bullets as well as throwing his aim off while the man flinched at the projectile being launched at his face, before dodging aside, leaving the case to crash into the guard-wall behind him and clatter to the floor.

As well as buying Shepard a couple of moments for his outer layer of defence to recover, it freed his left hand, allowing him to draw a throwing knife from an inner pocket of his trenchcoat in a SEAL grip before closing the distance between himself and his foe, who had recovered and was opening fire again before he was forced to duck under a spinning kick from the assassin. Shepard followed up with a stab aimed towards the throat, which the terrorist simply knocked aside with an armoured forearm, before replying with a lightening jab to Thaddaeus' torso with the pistol in his right hand.

In spite of the fact that the blow did little actual damage, the force behind it was sufficient to force Shepard to give ground, and though he recovered nigh instantaneously, it gave his foe the space he required to-

Holster his pistols, before advancing on Shepard himself, a move that Shepard hadn't anticipated, his brief confusion serving to slow his response, leaving him insufficient time to simply evade the blows that were targeted at him, instead opting to guide them away before countering with blows of his own-

Yet as soon as he knocked a blow to his diaphragm aside, a brief electric shock coursed through him for the duration of the contact, forcing him to drop his weapons and retreat still further, rendering him off balance and dazed, a situation that the terrorist meant to take full advantage of.

Shepard realised that they were both guilty of underestimating one another; it seemed that Walker had placed circuits in his armour that would be completed on contact with another object, electrifying the surface of the armour and delivering a shock to the object in contact with it, rendering his strikes significantly more deadly; a good blow to the torso would stop someone's heart, a blow to their head could fry their neurones. The assassin counted himself fortunate that he was wearing carbon composite armour that acted as a reasonable insulator.

Shepard was hard pressed simply to prevent his rival from landing a blow that would incapacitate or kill him, let alone to avoid getting shocked at all; already his muscles were aching in protest and he had yet to land a blow of his own. He ducked a jab to the face and knocked aside the blow aimed at his diaphragm that he nearly dodged into, yet still received a knee to the kidney for his trouble, shrugged it off and stepped away from a blow to the groin, affording the terrorist the room to aim a spinning kick at Shepard's neck, demonstrating an impressive flexibility in full armour.

As it transpired, however, the attack was a mistake. Shepard continued his retreating motion, and caught the kick in a grip between his forearms, not risking grasping Aloysius' armour as his digits could easily become locked around the armour so that he couldn't let go; which wouldn't be good for the terrorist, but would be entirely disastrous for the assassin.

Instead, Shepard fought to maintain his grip in spite of the current flowing into his limbs, sending his muscles into weak spasms that nevertheless made his situation frustratingly difficult, whilst he pushed back on the limb in his grasp, disrupting his captive foe's balance and preventing a response to his predicament for the necessary few seconds it took for Shepard to activate his Omni tool and-

Send an electrical pulse into Charon's already activated armour, failing to penetrate the terrorist's protection; however, that wasn't the assassin's intention. Instead, he had overloaded and burnt out the circuits that were delivering the shocks to the surface of the armour; suddenly, the situation was rather more equal.

However, Shepard wasn't afforded any more time to exploit his advantage; Charon gave up the fight to maintain his balance, instead thrusting himself up into the air with his free leg, giving him a moment, even as he fell, to deliver a powerful, if shock free, blow to the assassin's diaphragm, winding him, and causing him to release his tenuous grip on the nihilist's leg as he moved backwards with the force of the blow.

Walker hit the ground, and immediately leapt to his feet, just in time to be on the receiving end of Thaddaeus' retribution, having his guard slapped aside and just managing to twist his head away from a crippling blow to the temple, instead leaving him seeing stars and open to a blow to the chin beneath his gas mask that snapped his head backwards, recovering himself just in time to block having his eyes gouged by a double fingered jab to the face from the assassin.

The terrorist attempted to regain control of the conflict with a blow aimed at Shepard's mostly unprotected face, which Thaddaeus shied away from, before blocking a follow-up attack to his now exposed throat, countering with a flurry of blows that Aloysius blocked and parried with relative ease, though none of his counters succeeded in breaching his opponent's defences, either. Shepard attempted to break the deadlock with a stamp to the inside of his target's knee, even as Walker simultaneously attempted the same thing with a _head butt_, of all things, both of which had their desired effect, the terrorist's balance destroyed by the stomp and the assassin's focus disrupted by the head butt.

Stalemate. They stood a metre apart, within striking distance, remaining in eerily similar combat stances, breathing heavily, each examining the other closely for any sign that the other was about to make a move.

Walker was the first to break the silence, enquiring through gasped breaths "Are you _sure_ you don't want to reconsider my proposal?"

Shepard grimaced. "Sure you don't want to reconsider your goals?"

More silence, until they muttered simultaneously "This clearly isn't getting us anywhere." They glared at each other venomously, but Shepard couldn't help but grin exasperatedly at the absurdity of the situation, a grin that Walker found contagious.

"Well; if we're not going to be progressing any further here, I've still got a bio weapon to release, so if you don't mind-"

He stepped back away from his self-interested counterpart, and, before Shepard could react, leapt back over the wall, off of the balcony.

Shepard moved quickly to look over the edge, seeing that the terrorist had landed on a lower level, and was running quickly out of his line of sight.

He quickly moved to retrieve his pistol in order to be on more equal terms when he caught his quarry, then followed him over the edge.

_Git..._


	4. Crucial Pursuit

A/N: Sorry about the slang; for those who didn't understand it, 'git' is a British insult that is essentially a milder form of 'bastard'.

Furthermore, I apologise for an inexcusable delay even when one takes into account the fact that I was unable to do any writing at the weekend; I can only plea for forgiveness and explain that I had a serious amount of difficulty working out how to end where I wanted to in this chapter, and I'm still not entirely satisfied.

* * *

Crucial Pursuit

Shepard hit the ground, _hard_, but broke his fall with a roll that brought him back to his feet to pursue his target. He was already around thirty metres behind the terrorist, a significant distance in a chase that would make it easy for the hunted to elude the hunter, particularly with cloaking technology. However, Shepard hypothesised that if Walker had been able to use it, he would have done so already, meaning the sabotage of the circuits in his armour had likely also inadvertently damaged the cloak.

The bastard was _fast_, though; it looked like he'd put no small amount of time into training to move quickly. Shepard, on the other hand, had never had either the time or the inclination to do the same, when he could move quickly enough as it was and he had things he'd rather do with what little spare time he had on occasion; training focussed on combat and general fitness, not on how to sprint for as long as physically possible.

Shepard watched as the terrorist veered off through the door at the end of the platform that led to the stairwell and it hissed shut behind him, forced himself to run still faster, yet as he reached the door, caution brought him to a halt; he didn't want to burst through the door and find himself running into a bullet. Rather than activating the door's control panel, he rested his head against the cool metal for a moment, suppressing his heavy breathing and wishing he could do the same for the noise created by the blood rushing through his head, and strained to listen for any indication of his quarry's whereabouts.

_Faint and receding thudding noises, the tempo approximately matching the nihilist's running gait. Good enough._

Shepard stood and quickly hit the console, commanding the door to open and slipping through the gap as it complied-

And immediately suffered a jarring collision with Walker as he launched himself feet-first at the assassin from the stair-rail a level above him, driving Thaddaeus to the ground, slumped against the wall with the corner of the door digging into his back. Aloysius scrambled to his feet first and pressed his advantage, directing a kick at Shepard's unprotected face with an armoured boot, the self-serving psychopath managing to fall aside from the blow and reducing the blow to a glancing impact that nonetheless had him seeing stars.

Before the terrorist could withdraw the limb, Shepard grabbed at it, held it against the wall with his left hand before punching behind the knee with his right, causing the joint to bend and the ambusher to lean further in towards his hunter, his balance even more compromised. Shepard managed to exploit his foe's plight by shoving the other human to the right into the open doorway, giving him a window to regain his own feet in order to pursue-

And find himself once more at a disadvantage when Charon lashed out with a vicious combo of kicks at various points on the assassin's body, stalling his advance before a parried blow of Shepard's own led to him receiving a brutal blow to the head, catching the exact area that had been caught mere moments ago by the nihilist's kick, allowing the older man to manoeuvre Thaddaeus back further and further towards the hazard lurking behind him in the form of the downward flight of steps.

Aware of his plight and the necessity to alter the momentum of the combat into his favour, restoring his control, Shepard attempted to ram a heavy blow into the terrorist's chest with the sole of his armoured boot. The attempt succeeded, however, understanding Shepard's motivations, rather than halting or even giving ground with the blow in order to limit the force delivered by the impact, instead applied Newton's third law to the situation; 'Every action has an equal and opposite reaction'-

And _drove forwards_ into Shepard's foot, actually resulting in some bruising to his own torso, but in return causing Shepard to topple, off balance and surprised by the move, back down the steps. Aloysius made to follow-

But was forestalled by the impact of several rounds from the assassin's Karpov, somehow drawn during and aimed immediately after Thanatos' unfortunate encounter with gravity, bringing the terrorist's shields down to hazardously low levels and encouraging him to adopt the attitude that discretion was the better part of valour in this particular situation. So, instead of attacking further, Walker prudently took the alternative direction offered by the staircase and fled up it in great, leaping strides.

Shepard cursed aloud fervently as he got to his feet and made to follow, taking the stairs three at a time, his trenchcoat flaring out behind him, his eyes never leaving his prey, looking for an opportunity to open fire.

For Charon's part, not once did he make the amateurish mistake of looking behind him to ascertain the position of his pursuer, never stumbled, tripped or faltered, until he burst out into the wind and the chill air of the terminal roof. Looking at it conventionally, it appeared to be a dead end, leaving him trapped in a fight or die scenario.

Like Shepard, however, Walker knew that one could escape from just about anywhere without a fight with the proper and intelligent application of creative, unorthodox thinking.

And he'd trained himself in more than just running...

Shepard reached the door less than half a minute behind his quarry, but elected to risk losing more time and increasing the distance between them in favour of exercising greater caution; whilst it was possible that the nihilist would simply rely on Shepard's paranoia to buy him more time, it was also possible that he would rely on Shepard believing that that was the case and laying another ambush. There was little to no point considering further as it would give no conclusions without more data, and in any case the course of action to follow was the one that was least likely on average, taking into account most scenarios as well as their probability, to result in his premature death.

Shepard hacked the door's console and opened it from the side so as to be concealed from those watching the door as it opened, before stepping away from the open portal so that he'd have a greater distance between himself and any threats, sidearm raised as he moved out into the open-

To see the terrorist standing near the edge of the section of roof, perhaps ten metres away, his back to the man who hunted him.

Shepard fired.

Charon took a brief run-up and jumped, descended rapidly out of the assassin's line of sight and landing on the adjacent area of concrete, studded with ventilation outlets, rolling with the impact and rising to his feet before following a vector that offered the most efficient route to a different building.

Shepard followed without hesitation, sprinting to the edge of the roof and tracking his quarry with his weapon for half a second before concluding that he wouldn't be able to knock out the terrorist's shields before he made it out of range of the N7's sidearm, and mimicking his prey's earlier leap.

Karpov still in hand, he looked for a more efficient route in order to cut down on the distance between him and his target, opening fire as he did so in an effort to get the nihilist to slow down in trying to evade the projectiles, resulting in Walker simply veering so that a ventilation outlet blocked the assassin's line of sight, giving Shepard no choice other than to follow and keep looking for another course of action; at the moment the scenario was almost entirely in his foe's favour.

The gap to the next building was a long one; over five metres, which would have been manageable, had neither man been wearing armour or bearing weaponry. However, Walker made it with relative ease, vaulting a ventilation outlet to grant him a greater altitude from which to make the jump, grabbing onto the edge of the building and scrambling up quickly before swerving off on a tangent to his previous route to avoid the inevitable fire from his pursuer, who stalled, then was forced instead to attempt to replicate the feat without any experience in the field; Shepard's philosophy had been to improvise in such circumstances, as prescribing to a specific practice allowed one's opponents to predict one's reactions with greater ease. However, he couldn't spot an alternative, in this case, which seemed to indicate a flaw in the strategy.

He bore lighter armour than that chosen by Charon, and carried less in the way of weaponry, yet he also carried his sidearm in one hand, something that he was unwilling to change in the event that he got an opportunity to open fire on his foe or vice versa, and the trophy from Torfan whipped around him fiercely in the wind, distorting his profile which would be an asset were he the one being hunted, yet it also tugged at his balance and impeded his movements slightly.

Assessing the drop to be one that he would be unable to survive under almost any circumstances, and only too aware of the increasing distance between himself and his quarry, Shepard backed up again to afford himself the opportunity to increase his forward momentum, then sprinted straight at the same ventilation outlet, pushed himself off of the ground with his less favoured left leg, awkwardly landed on the raised (and not especially robust) surface, and launched himself into space with the same limb he landed on.

Karpov in his right hand, he reached for the edge of the building with his left, seeing that his jump had given him the approximate trajectory to hit the wall at a sufficient altitude to prevent himself from falling to his death, and though he could feel the high winds tugging at him and pulling him off course, it seemed that they wouldn't have sufficient effect-

He slammed into the edge of the wall at about chest height, the impact driving the breath from his lungs and bruising his torso painfully in spite of his armour, and immediately tried to gain sufficient traction with which to pull himself up.

Easier said than done; his hand gaining friction but no purchase as it scrabbled against the frustratingly smooth roof, his right having even less of an effect as it bore a weapon, and his legs and feet pressed themselves vainly against the side of the building, yet he was slipping, and his current actions were unlikely to alter that.

He swore aloud in spite of himself, pushed the pistol from himself in order to free his other hand without sacrificing the weapon permanently, and managed to halt his inexorable regress backwards.

He sighed with relief, and strained to pull himself up safely, managing to get his torso up over the edge, rotate himself and then roll to safety-

To see the terrorist standing over him, holding the assassin's own weapon, aimed unerringly between Shepard's eyes.

_Certain death or almost certain death. Choices, choices..._

Shepard snap-rolled back in the opposite direction, away from his enemy's muzzle flash that had actually been adjusted in anticipation of a move towards himself, and dropped into the void.


	5. Hades

A/N: Sorry for yet another delay for such a short chapter; I've been doing some research, i.e. playing Mass Effect for the first time, as I only got it a couple of days ago. Updates will probably continue to be fairly infrequent, I'm sorry to say, as I intend to play all the way through the trilogy before I look at ME3's extended cut, and although I am prepared to be disappointed, I want to see it with eyes untainted by spoilers.

* * *

Hades

Charon swallowed his shock as he watched his rival topple over the edge, stepped forwards to look down after him and watch him plummet out of sight, but instead found that Shepard had already disappeared.

The nihilist was no fool; Shepard was almost certainly still alive; the assassin was as capable as he was, and the terrorist had no intention of underestimating such a challenging foe by assuming his death unless he'd seen a body and had a genetics test come back a match.

However, he wasn't about to follow his foe on the assumption that he'd achieve the same feat that he was sure Thanatos had and, continue a confrontation that could end in his premature demise.

No, he had a bio weapon to release...

* * *

Aloysius Walker was right to be sceptical; Thaddaeus Shepard was not dead. Not yet. He was, however, rather upset at having lost to someone in what had been, to all intents and purposes, a fairly equal conflict. Escape and survival moderated the defeat, yet a defeat it remained, and that was something he couldn't allow to stand except in extreme circumstances; Shepard was fundamentally self centred and opportunistic, but he was not without pride.

He wiped his face cautiously, conscious of the pain in the limbs that had partially broken his fall, clearing the blood that had flowed from his eyes and nose and dislodging the headache's hold with painkillers, rueing the use of his biotics, however, it had been necessary; brain damage (which would have essentially meant the death of who he was now) hadn't been certain, whilst the irretrievable damage done to his body as a result of an impact with unforgiving concrete at his terminal velocity had been.

So he had managed to devise a minimalist solution that reduced the risks of his overstretching himself to a number that was acceptably close to zero; altered his trajectory and decelerated his fall by grabbing a biotic handhold on the building he was plummeting on a parallel course to, sending himself crashing _painfully_ onto a balcony that was, thankfully, concealed from prying eyes peering from the rooftop by a clone directly above it.

However, considering the risks that could potentially be associated not just with calling on too much of his biotic power, but using it too frequently, Shepard resolved never to attempt anything of the sort unless there was no other viable alternative and the consequences of inaction were akin to death; no fate made him more uncomfortable than the prospect of his body living out it's days as a dribbling husk, absent of a reasonable level of sentience. That _would_ be death, for the current him at least, but there would be a lesser version that would share his DNA and his experiences, and Shepard could empathise with a hypothetical version of himself (if not with others) enough not to want anything of the sort to happen.

_Speaking of death..._ The assassin brought up the map on his omnitool and rapidly concluded that they was no way he'd be able to catch Charon before he released his bio weapon, which was unfortunate, for reasons beyond the deaths of all those irrelevant civilians; Shepard had left his gas mask back in the transport hub, and without it, he'd be just as vulnerable to the pathogen as everyone else.

That rather made up his mind for him about what to do next; retrieve his equipment as quickly as feasibly possible. The issue was how to do that, being in a different building entirely at that moment; from the looks of it a hotel profiting from being directly adjacent to the city's main transport hub, he thought as he moved off of the balcony and into an empty suite of rooms furnished with cases and civilians accessories strewn about the place. His lip curled in contempt. Military discipline disinterested Shepard, even if it _was_ undeniably necessary in most cases, but he preferred to keep his effects organised.

He left the room, not having time to sift through belongings and liberate the occupants of any credit chits they might have left lying around (he _had_ begun as a thief after leaving the orphanage, and looting on Alliance wages was mere common sense, after all), and jogged down a corridor, burst through a door into the stairwell, and ascended as rapidly as his aching body would allow, intending to return to the roof as there would be no time to descend all that way to the ground and thence return to the hub.

Shepard slid through the still opening door onto the roof, and heard something that gave him pause, before sending him into overdrive-something he'd prefer not to have heard for at least another ten minutes, if at all. An English accented voice, blasting out across the city from every speaker at full volume, the voice itself soft and low but clearly enunciated and audible from absolutely everywhere within the settlement.

"_Good citizens of Terra Nova. Doubtless many of you will have heard of the recent disease outbreaks on other human colonies across Alliance space. Doubtless most of those will have believed the tales fed to you by your politicians, bureaucrats and the media that these incidents are entirely unrelated in nature. That is a fiction." _

Shepard knew what was coming, knew the speech had a purpose and could guess what it was. He pushed through the wind to retrace his steps across the rooftops, his teeth bared as he raggedly inhaled air into his lungs to fuel his exertions.

"_In actuality, the outbreaks were due to the actions of a malignant party entirely ruthless and remorseless in nature, a party that is about to commit a similar offence here. That party is myself. And all of this could have been prevented if those entrusted with your protection had been less self-interested and concerned with preserving order and more concerned with your wellbeing." _

Something was wrong, out of place, the N7 noticed, without being certain as to what, even as he hurled himself through the air in a jump that was thankfully easier than it had been in the opposite direction, before clambering up onto the roof of the transport hub and making his way back to the stairwell that would leave him closest to his abandoned equipment-if it was still there, and hadn't been removed by security, Shepard thought pessimistically, but realised that were that the case, he would have been unlikely to find viable alternatives in time, so there was little point dwelling on it unless it happened.

"_Instead, they allowed me to slip through the cracks in their security and are no longer in a position to stop me. In fact, all they can and will do is ensure that more of you die by trapping you here. This is what is really meant by quarantine, what they like to think of as the 'safe' approach, although in actuality all they're doing is playing God and sacrificing your lives as a cost-cutting measure."_

It was the voice, Shepard realised as he vaulted the rail guard and dropped a level, landing heavily and staggering slightly before repeating the action. He couldn't have been certain as to the authenticity of Charon's accent and therefore his tale about his origins in their earlier conversation, due to the muffling and distorting effects of the gas mask the terrorist had already been wearing, somewhat unnecessarily.

Even now, he was uncertain as to whether what he was hearing wasn't simply the result of a glitch in the broadcasting process, yet there was something... _wrong_ with the man's accent. A foreign undercurrent that sounded like an undercurrent of, well, just about _every _accent commonly used on Earth.

He was being played, Thaddaeus decided with a fair amount of certainty, but the question was, had the original pose been a deception to make him more amenable to an alliance, or was this new development one designed to distract him now that he was a foe? Either was plausible, perhaps even both in combination.

"_Now you know who's truly responsible for your immanent demises, besides me. On with the show."_

Shepard reached the level of his destination even as his nihilistic counterpart's speech ended. He smashed the door's control panel impatiently and squeezed through the very moment the opening was large enough to allow him to pass-

And stumble (metaphorically speaking) into a group of three security officials, one of whom had his back turned, and, Shepard realised, was examining the contents of his case. The other two, after a moment's hesitation, were training their guns on him, accompanied by the traditional demands to put his hands on display above his head. Needless to say, the assassin elected not to comply, several sharp detonations of varying volume and therefore proximity impressing upon him the necessity of haste.

A quick pulse from his omnitool overloaded their weapons for a moment while they were distracted with the noises, allowing him the time to knock aside the nearer officer's weapon with a kick, continuing the spinning motion to draw one of his remaining knives from within his coat and open the disarmed human's throat, then send the knife whirling past the man's horrified comrade to gore the third official through the eye even as he turned and raised his fully functional weapon.

Shepard made to walk past the shell-shocked survivor and retrieve his kit; the man wouldn't be alive much longer, and was no longer a threat in his traumatised condition.

Shepard bent over the fresher of the two corpses to pull it off of his case, considering retrieving the man's sidearm, a fairly basic Kessler pistol, but better than nothing at all, but instead prioritised donning his gas mask, which mirrored Charon's own rebreather, yet allowed the option of eye protection, which Shepard deemed unnecessary due to Walker's lack of similar measures. He didn't want to have anything interfere with the functionality of his visor.

He was apparently just in time; behind him, through his whimpering, the final security official was starting to cough. Then, his whimpering took on a far more desperate tone, and he could hear the man shuffling around, possibly even clawing at himself. Shepard finished assembling his sniper rifle, and attached it to the electromagnet on the back of his armour, through his trenchcoat, before checking the Kessler with a professional, if mildly disdainful, air, then turned to check on the man, curious about the terrorists bio weapon.

Shepard was by no means a squeamish man, however, what he saw _did_ perturb him, even if only slightly. The man was indeed clawing at himself, or rather, at fairly specific points on his body; the main lymph nodes, which were already swollen to grotesque proportions, clearly visible even through the man's garments.

Buboes, the swellings were called; the key symptom of the disease that, even after decades of brilliant modern medicine, was dreaded by every human that had even a basic familiarity with their species' history: bubonic plague, one of two diseases involved in the infamous pandemic in the mid-1300s known as the Black Death which wiped out tens of millions of humans, about twenty percent of Earth's population, a disaster of proportions that hadn't been seen since, outside of the two world wars.

The thing was, it _couldn't_ be bubonic plague; the disease was dead, had been wiped out, and modern vaccinations would have prevented a reoccurrence. On top of which, bubonic plague, unlike its companion pneumonic plague, killed you slowly and painfully, and would never have produced visible symptoms within scant seconds; it's incubation period was measured in days, not moments.

Shepard had a dreadful suspicion that _this_ attack had a purpose beyond drawing him in and killing people. This attack, as suggested by Charon's little speech before the pathogen's release, was geared towards spreading panic, and producing anarchy. The terrorist had been right about the quarantine, and knew perfectly well that once it started, the city of Scott would begin to tear itself apart, with riots, looting, and mass attempts both to keep the infected away and escape the quarantine zone; attempts that would in the latter case have to be defeated by the relevant authorities, though both would inevitably involve use of lethal force, which would only serve to escalate the violence further.

Shepard put the official out of his misery with his scavenged pistol, not out of any real pity or mercy, but because the man's thrashings were distracting and off-putting when the assassin was trying to think. He had failed to prevent the release of the pathogen, however, that had never been the primary objective of his assignment, and what happened to the city as a whole was now out of his hands.

His purpose was now to prevent Walker's escape, which could potentially be the reason for the chaos that the pathogen would cause; if Walker broke the quarantine's safety net and brought enough people through with him, there was a very good chance he'd be able to slip away and get off-planet.

Now he had to find out where that was likely to be, which meant analysing weaknesses in the city boundaries that the terrorist would attempt to exploit, and then prioritising them on the basis of proximity with the terrorist's last known location, which would have to be wherever he had hacked into the city's broadcasting system from to deliver his speech.

Shepard shot the control panels on the doors to the area to prevent the arrival of unwanted company, then brought up the city schematics on his omnitool and got to work...


	6. Asphodel

A/N: Another delay to apologise for; I was away at the weekend which meant that I couldn't do any writing.

* * *

Asphodel

It was actually rather amusing, Charon reflected, how easily one could manage to twist the aimless, useless masses into a volatile and dangerous swarm that could serve one's agenda like no other tool, in some cases. As long as you neglected to classify pouring hundreds of thousands of credits into tailoring a bio weapon for one specific purpose, and thousands more getting into the position to use it effectively, as a difficulty. Other than that, it was really quite effortless.

What was funnier still was the fact that most of the people out there, looting and stampeding and killing each other weren't dying any faster than they had been before he'd interfered, and were unlikely to start now. Whilst the pathogen had a very low incubation period, it couldn't survive outside of a host for very long, and wasn't particularly contagious. Of course, neither the Alliance nor the civilians were to know that, and, having some grasp of the concept of prudence, they were unwilling to find out. Of course, all they had to do was set up a little scientific experiment and his little plot would be foiled utterly, but they wouldn't. After all, experimenting on people, playing with their lives, was conventionally accepted as being morally wrong, although in this case doing the 'right' thing would result in more unnecessary deaths and wanton destruction.

However, he hadn't gone to the trouble of creating a disease that had a worse bark than it's bite for the sheer entertainment value; sick people didn't make for very effective mobs, and mobs that one could lose oneself in made for a very effective human shield; particularly if those you were protecting yourself from wanted to preserve human life wherever possible.

This, ironically, meant that the person best equipped to save the most lives here was the one least concerned with doing so, besides himself of course. Assuming Shepard was still alive, of which Charon was reasonably certain.

He'd lost himself in the midst of a crowd straining against the defences hastily raised at the edge of the quarantine zone, manned by a meagre number of carefully dispersed Alliance personnel, as well as a few law enforcement officials that had been lucky enough to be beyond the city limits when he'd released the weapon. Thus far, the mob had remained reasonably peaceful, simply demanding that they be allowed out and away from those that were sick, demands that the soldiers clearly couldn't give in to.

However, the situation was volatile enough; it just needed the appropriate push to send it off in the right direction. A push that the terrorist happily provided, in the form of a manually triggered explosion that he had planted earlier, which blew a hole in the fortifications and killed a few of those that defended them.

It was accompanied by another, more distant detonation, at another crucial location that had a crowd outside, and a few people valiantly trying to keep them out. The spaceport. Another vital component in the machination that would get Charon off-planet; the Alliance fleet would now be forced to contain the threat of potentially infected people trying to leave the city, allowing him to slip past them as a lesser priority.

Back at Charon's location, seeing their salvation dangled before them, the mob surged forward, forcing the remaining guards to open fire as a deterrent. _Escalation-isn't it wonderful?_ Charon thought to himself, humming Grieg's 'In the Hall of the Mountain King' quietly as he was swept along with the crowd towards the gap in their defences. Too many looters were garbed in a similar fashion to himself for him to attract any attention from all but the most experienced eyes.

* * *

One pair of which were watching from half a mile away, halfway up a building, through the sight of a batarian made sniper rifle. Shepard sighed, the air leaving his gas mask in an exasperated, mechanical hiss. Situations like this were just about the most awkward a precision sniper could encounter. He caught periodic flashes of his mark every couple of seconds, but never still, and never for long enough for him to take a shot and expect it to succeed.

And yet, he had to keep Charon within the quarantine zone, somehow. There was no chance that he'd manage to get anywhere near the terrorist's current location before the man was long gone. Fortunately, the assassin didn't have to worry about collateral damage; many of these people were dead anyway, would be mown down by the security forces trying to hold the line, or crushed beneath the feet of their fellow victims in the vicious currents of the panicked and vengeful crowd, or would be killed by the pathogen.

Bringing down all of those who surrounded Walker was unlikely to work as a tactic; he'd be alerted to Thaddaeus' efforts, and clearing his way could potentially make life easier for the nihilist to escape the line of fire and perhaps the quarantine zone. A far better option would be to make him a victim of his own strategy, by using the crowd against him. Shepard added to the rounds being poured into the front ranks of the mob, firing ELE as frequently as he could without overheating the weapon, aiming for shots that would mutilate and maim multiple targets instead of his usual clean headshots; he had to make them afraid, send them running in the opposite direction to Charon's destination.

It was grim work; shooting fish in a barrel, as the idiom went, or, equally appropriately, feeding the meat grinder. He killed one and crippled two, and three more would be forced helplessly into their place; the crowd as a whole was slow to respond, and continued to press forward. There was no challenge, no puzzle, and next to no precision required.

The process bored and aggravated him, yet firing at the back of the crowd wouldn't help; it wouldn't solve the problem of the front ranks breaking through the lines, at which point there would be no stopping Charon's escape, and it might well alert the terrorist to Shepard's survival, although if he had any sense he would assume the greatest threat to his plan was still active, and work on that basis. However, there was no point providing clear confirmation.

Even so, there had to be a more efficient solution. Shepard scanned the defensive lines, hoping vaguely that the guards were still holding back to some extent, that they might have something else suitably horrific that they weren't yet willing to use on what were still mostly (to them at least) desperate civilians simply trying to save themselves. His smile when he spotted the grenades wasn't pleasant.

He moved his fire to the few remaining officials trying to hold the line and keep fatalities down, brought down those firing least frequently and effectively in order to remove their restraining influence from their comrades. He then ceased fire briefly, making some quick but crude, and, most importantly, reversible, modifications to ELE, reducing the rifle's lethality, before inflicting some _mutilating_ shots to his remaining pawns, shots designed to provoke and enrage, but allow continued function so that he wouldn't weaken their defences to the point where the mob broke through.

It worked; one particular enterprising fellow began to make use of some grenades that he already had on his person, and his comrades rapidly adopted the practise. Later, many of them would doubtless be horrified by their actions, 'thinking' (_if it could even be described as such_, Shepard sniffed disdainfully) with their emotions, rather than logic, that their actions were inexcusable, possibly driving some of them into depression. If that occurred, then so be it; it would be their own poor reasoning skills that left them there, in which case any and all consequences would simply be more applied Darwinism. The reality of the situation was that their actions, prompted by his provoking, had certainly saved more lives than would have been the case had they not employed the explosives.

_Maybe they'll get medals. Or maybe I'll get one instead..._ Shepard thought and chuckled quietly in spite of himself, as he restored ELE's optimal function; the thought was that absurd. The sound coming out of the gas mask's filters was utterly alien.

In any case, unsurprisingly, the gruesome detonations in the midst of the dense swarm of civilians did the trick, distributing discouraging sprays of shrapnel (both organic and synthetic) and viscera throughout the mob, and frightening them with the concussive roars that accompanied each explosion. The mob recoiled, turned in on itself like a spasming beast entering its death throes, and fled, carrying the terrorist puppeteer with them. Shepard caught a glimpse of the man as he was swept away-almost meeting the assassin's gaze through his scope, a wry grin on his face that failed to reach his feverish gaze.

_An impressive feat. Someone else might have found it unsettling..._ Thaddaeus smirked, smug in his victory and vengeance as he made his way out of the building to pick up his quarry's trail.

The streets, however, were by no means clear when he resumed the hunt. For the most part, people saw him, in the trenchcoat and armour, with a gas mask and visor, bloodstained eyes and face and armed with a sniper rifle, and gave him a _very_ wide berth, as he stalked through the streets. However, one truth that Shepard had long acknowledged was that if you could think of something stupid to do, there would always be _someone_ out there who was convinced it was a good idea; in this case, a group of bystanders electing to interfere with him.

A gang of them would probably be the more appropriate phrase; young men in their twenties, at most their thirties, tightly clustered, watching him as they followed on a parallel vector. Some of them were armed, carrying basic pistols or sshotguns; others had improvised close quarters weapons in the form of knives and makeshift clubs. There were eleven of them, enough to bolster their confidence enough to see him as a target, yet they were cautious, so apparently not totally lacking in neurones.

It would have been better if they were. Instead, they were likely to make nuisances of themselves at the most inconvenient point they could, something that Shepard didn't want, and though he had no time to get sidetracked, now was as good a moment as any to deal with the threat, such as it was. They were amateurs, certainly, inept at close quarters combat and by no means marksmen, which meant that there was no need to worry about those armed with pistols; in his armour, they'd only be able to do any damage at point blank range, where they'd be lucky to get a shot at all.

The shotguns were a different matter. Any ape could use a shotgun effectively at close range; one of the reasons Shepard privately _loathed_ the weapon. All in all, it was a confrontation Shepard would rather not go through, which was why, rather than filling the area with gunfire and picking a few of them off with ELE from a distance, he decided to approach them and offer some polite advice, instead.

At which point, belatedly, they tried to pretend that they weren't watching him.

"Excuse me?" Shepard paused, searching for a way to phrase the death threats in a way that would still be seen as polite in 'civilised' society. Not that he, or these men for that matter, had seen any for quite some time. The thugs turned towards him, endeavouring to be innocent and failing to such extremes the assassin found it comical.

"I noticed that you seem to be assessing me as a possible target for some... _offensive_ actions. I wanted to advise you that your attentions would be better placed elsewhere, in the interest of your collective wellbeing."

"What?" The leader, by sheer impetuousness it seemed, responded coarsely, injecting his voice with what he thought was menace, but came across as mindless aggression.

"Oh, I'm sorry; do I need to simplify my vocabulary for you? I should have realised that words of multiple syllables would be perceived as incomprehensibly complex." Shepard said, keeping his voice mild but unable to prevent a note of condescension from entering. It was force of habit.

The thug seemed to have had his higher mental functions suppressed by testosterone, and instead attempted to cast the first blow, ignoring the shotgun he carried like a club in his left hand, and instead lunging at the psychopath's face with his right. Shepard moved, allowed the overpowered blow to sail past him, and simultaneously, in one smooth motion, drew the Kessler pistol and shot the ape in the forehead.

"Well, that was more or less inevitable." He sighed mock-sorrowfully, and then turned to face the new corpse's comrades, who were already rushing him in a flawless demonstration of synchronised stupidity.

Some of those bearing firearms moved around to flank him, firing as they went; apparently it hadn't registered that their opponent was armoured and shielded. They did still present the most grievous threat, although that didn't really mean much, so once Shepard had met their comrades' charge, keeping them from firing for fear of hitting their friends, he steered the combat in their direction, leaving a trail of dead or incapacitated thugs and dropped weapons.

The situation became somewhat more frustrating when it transpired that those not already engaged in combat apparently had just enough sense to realise that it was in their best interests to keep it that way, and, as they weren't busy fighting as well as trying to move, they could back away faster than Shepard could pursue them.

And that was the point at which Shepard's organic options for cover started dropping like flies, the high velocity rounds only missing him due to luck, and the fact that Shepard never stopped moving. Someone out there had a sniper rifle and most certainly knew how to use it, and that really didn't fill the assassin with optimism. He gave up on the idea of pursuing the thugs that had guns, given that they were no longer the greatest present threat, and concentrated on getting to the nearest cover that would at minimum put him out of the sniper's line of sight, and preferably be capable of stopping a bullet as well.

He found it indoors, in a shop that had already been looted and had its windows smashed and its door circuits gutted so that it stayed open. The owners were nowhere to be seen, although there were extensive bloodstains on the walls and carpet that suggested a reason why that might be. Shepard kept running in, just as the bullets continued flying past him, occasionally missing him by a hair's breadth, dived over the counter and stayed there, crouching and gasping in order to make up the oxygen deficit he had built up due to anaerobic respiration.

His omnitool vibrated, indicating that he had an incoming connection.

No-one should have his contact details other than command, which left two options; either they wanted to give him/receive an update on the situation, possibly with new orders, or someone had broken into the system and stolen his data.

_Now, who could that be?_ He thought dryly, as he allowed the connection.

"_See? It's not so fun having a sniper interfering with you when you're trying to accomplish a task, is it?"_


	7. Rifles at Dawn

A/N: This is likely to be the last update for a while, as I'm going on holiday for a fortnight, coming back for a couple of days, and then going away again. It is, however, my intention to keep writing whilst I am away, so that when I get back, hopefully I will be able to post multiple chapters at once.

* * *

Rifles at Dawn

"Charon. I'd love to talk, but unfortunately, I'm on the clock at the moment. I might be able to chat later though, once I've eliminated my target. How does that sound?" Shepard said in a conversational tone that belied his focussed expression, eyes fixed on his omnitool as he ran a trace programme to locate his foe, before baring his teeth in silent frustration as his microcomputer drew a blank.

"_I doubt I'll be available at that point, or that you'll be, for that matter. You see, I have it on very good authority that you'll be dead with your skull shattered and your liquefied brain leaking onto the floor, whilst I'll be off planet."_

"I thought I'd already mentioned the imprudence, let alone the offensive nature of death threats. It's also considered rude in modern polite society to lie about one's identity to interested parties." Thaddaeus retorted, eyes shut and brow furrowed whilst he tried to visualise the events before he'd reached cover and deduce the terrorist's location.

"_Oh, yes, of course, I'd forgotten that just because murder is socially acceptable these days, society's discerning standards haven't slipped at all."_

"Well, these _are_ rather extreme circumstances, after all, and, furthermore, ones that you brought about yourself." The assassin noted as he carefully ensured that he remained completely hidden whilst he silently pulled ELE from her collapsed position on his back, and deployed the sniper rifle, before shuffling to the very edge of his cover.

"_Very true. But you can't deny, with your experiences, that this is _exactly _what lies beneath the surface of _every_ so-called sentient being, that the civilisation that you believe is worth retaining is a mere facade that conceals the barbarism within."_

"And I haven't tried to. Just because something is a mere illusion doesn't mean you can't enjoy it. For instance, just about every emotion is a function of chemical reactions occurring within your body, from satisfaction at the sight of the corpse of someone you loathed to the loathing itself. And the capacity for rational thought that seems to put us above just about every other being in the universe is nothing more than pre-determined electrical signals in our brains reacting to external stimuli; yet you seem to revel in your superiority complex, rather like me."

"_So you intend simply to ride the endorphins until your body breaks down, content to leave nothing behind that matters?"_ Charon replied with contempt for the very concept of being enslaved to sensation in such a fashion, despite being aware of the hypocrisy. _Everyone's a hypocrite,_ he thought darkly. _At least I acknowledge the fact and intend to do something about it..._

"Essentially. Nothing matters, as you said-and why does destruction have any more meaning than creation? Creation is merely delaying the inevitable, but everything will end just as surely with or without your interference, at which point_ when_ it ends ceases to matter, and you and your legacy are both just as irrelevant as everything else."

There was a door in front of the assassin, slightly to the left of his position at the back of the room, presumably leading into the owner's private area. His escape, displayed tantalisingly before him, yet it might as well have been a mile away with Charon waiting to place a round squarely between his shoulder blades.

The worst thing about the encounter was facing the unknown. Shepard knew nothing about Charon's practises, strategies or habits, and knowing that they had a similar way of thinking didn't help, as evidence for any theory always came down to two equally possible scenarios; either what he saw was a ploy designed to slow him down, or it was a genuine move on the chessboard that he had to react to.

The terrorist hadn't been using a sniper rifle in their previous encounter, which could mean that he didn't tend to use them, which could mean he wasn't particularly skilled, in which case Shepard's odds of survival were rather better, or it could simply mean that a sniper rifle had previously been unnecessary, and now was, and Charon was a perfectly competent sniper that would pick him off without so much as a blink.

Nothing more to go on; nothing to help him make a decision. It was fifty-fifty, and Shepard preferred never to gamble unless there was an element of skill involved, or he could put the rules in his favour by resorting to unorthodox practises. So that was what he did. _After all, it worked for Hannibal Barca... and Scipio Africanus..._

"By the way, you still haven't told me your name-" Shepard said, fighting to keep his voice level and casual, but deliberately letting a little strain in at the end of the sentence, just as he-

Flung his sidearm out from cover, to see it smash against the wall before falling to the floor. The sudden movement, combined with the ploy to increase the terrorist's adrenaline levels and make him more tense, compelled the sniper to open fire on reflex at the sudden movement, at which point Shepard surged out of cover and swept through the door at the back of the room, safely out of his foe's reach.

"_You cheated."_

Shepard snorted. "And now, you'll need to try and replicate the feat, or you aren't worthy of the role of Scipio to my Hannibal."

"_And how do you know that I didn't precede you?"_ Charon's retort was automatic, and mildly spoken, yet there was just the faintest undercurrent of indignation that would be impossible to forge.

"I wouldn't be too proud of that, considering the comparatively amateurish mistake you just made. Now, as enjoyable as this conversation is, I have business to attend to." He located the stairs in the back of the building and cautiously ascended to the level above, avoiding framing himself against any windows.

Which made the inward explosion of the glass window to Shepard's immediate right all the more unnerving. Shepard instinctively flinched away from the flying shards of glass debris, shielding his eyes, although he took a couple of nicks to the exposed skin on his face, which were nowhere near severe enough to be worth applying medigel to; Thaddaeus simply allowed his blood to clot and seal the wound by itself. His mood, however, had soured significantly, simply because the event had startled him, although it couldn't possibly be anything more than a fortunate shot in the dark, and one that Shepard was determined his adversary would be unable to exploit.

"_Oh, I _heard_ that."_ Came the sly voice over the connection. Shepard's eyes went flat with the urge to kill. _"Are you all right?"_

The assassin didn't bother responding, and instead opted to disconnect, partially because he didn't want to lower himself to hurling abuse at his opponent, which was very tempting, but also self-defeating. However, it was mostly because Charon could use it as a way to discover his location, and there was no way anyone comparable to him would be fooled by something as crude as removing the speaker and hurling it away from his position. Besides which, he'd need the capacity to communicate with command again once he'd killed the arrogant bastard.

_Is this the reaction I bring out in others? _Shepard wondered idly, and couldn't suppress a little chuckle at the realisation that it probably was. He'd observed it, and understood it intellectually, but of course, it just wasn't the same as actually experiencing it. Now, he'd be able to enjoy it to an _exponentially_ greater degree.

He moved on, crouching to stay below Charon's line of sight, looking for a reasonable spot from which to shoot that wouldn't be too obvious to an opponent.

In the end, he chose what was very close to an ideal spot, that Charon probably wouldn't even consider, as he was only too aware that the man he was fencing with was about as far from an amateur as one can get. After all, professionals that are interested in prolonging their existences are only too willing to handicap themselves in exchange for a bit more obscurity, as if you can see your target, your target is capable of seeing you. The option Shepard had chosen was one of the most obvious options to a professional pair of eyes, and would probably be disregarded by his foe as a result. Probably.

Charon didn't bother firing again; such a move could give away his position without any likely benefit, and, of course, firing too frequently would cause his weapon to overheat, leaving him entirely vulnerable and Shepard free to move in the open for a brief window of time. Either of these could, and therefore, according to Murphy's Law, _would _be fatal.

And so, tense, his body coursing with adrenaline and entirely ready to bolt from the very real possibility of leaning into a high-velocity sniper round, Shepard cautiously edged out of cover, his muscles aching and shrieking at the agonisingly slow movement intended to avoid drawing the terrorist's gaze.

It would almost have been a relief to return to the simplicity of flight, instead of this shadow war in which any moment could be your last, and you knew it, and the only way to remain intact was to play this mental game of chess, full of bluff and double bluff and sod all in the way of evidence for your hypotheses.

And nothing happened. Shepard stood half crouched, cradling ELE, his leg muscles beginning to tremble with the strain of holding such an inconvenient pose. The rifle inched its way up to his face, and he peered through the scope, slowly, carefully scanning the area for that flash of movement, that brief glint of reflected light, that ominous silhouette or, perhaps, a ripple in the air as a bullet passed him by or worse still, a sudden jolt and then the Void.

Shepard wasn't afraid, but he was certainly tense. And he wasn't the only one.

Human eyes are designed to see patterns. It's helpful in evolutionary terms; you see what you think is a big, frightening predator in the woods, and you run away. Sometimes it's nothing, sometimes you escape being eaten. Only very rarely do you disturb the creature that's looking for you and cause your own demise. Unfortunately, that was exactly what both men risked if they fired. Caution is, for this reason, all but mandatory in a sniper.

Shepard couldn't find him, knew he couldn't take too long or he might get spotted himself and be killed before he could act. He also knew that moving position could give him away. It was practically Catch 22. He lowered ELE slightly to examine the area via his visor, allowing peripheral vision, and trading detail for a wider area of vision.

Then-

He caught a sudden flash of reflected light in the visor's magnified HUD, and interpreted it correctly as an omen mere moments in advance of the calamity. He raised his rifle again, discarding stealth and caution in favour of haste, and, as he tensed himself to fall away from his exposed position, pulled the trigger-

Even as Charon did the same.

Both men, in their haste, failed to achieve headshots; each sniper round slammed into the other man's torso. Shepard was hit in the gut, the hyper-accelerated fragment of metal breaking through his shields and piercing his armour, before rending his flesh and finally taking its leave via the armour on Shepard's back. The force of the shot had been reduced to levels that wouldn't kill him instantly by his shields and armour, but he was still knocked to the ground, and struggling against the encroaching shock to retain consciousness. Fumbling briefly with his omnitool, he managed to apply medigel to the wound, and relaxed slightly as the anaesthesia took effect, before crawling further into cover.

Charon's armour and shielding were significantly more effective than Shepard's; however, by the same token, the assassin's rifle was a far more lethal instrument. If the round from ELE had more difficulty in piercing the terrorist's shields and armour, there was still more than adequate force to do significant damage to his innards, namely his left lung, which Shepard had managed to collapse, being a more experienced and talented shot.

The downside to the better armour and shielding for Charon was that the round had also ground to a halt lodged in the back of his ribcage, grating painfully against the bone if he didn't take care over his movements. The force of the shot sent him staggering back, wheezing and clutching at the wound with his free hand, before his legs gave way and he sat, slumped against the wall behind him.

The terrorist didn't apply medigel to the wound immediately, instead sat with his brow furrowed in thought, ignoring the pain, his restricted breathing, and the light headedness that it caused. A simple application of medigel might seal the wound and deal with his pain, but it wouldn't deal with a collapsed lung; in fact, it would interfere with the process, by sealing together parts of his anatomy that were intended to remain apart. He needed professional tools to fix the damage; if he didn't, he'd remain at a huge disadvantage.

Charon hastily injected himself with adrenaline and morphine, to allow continued function, before calling up the city maps on his omnitool and locating the nearest doctor's surgery. He hauled himself up off of the wall to a more stable position, and was about to scramble on his way, when a voice sounded in his ear, making his muscles spasm in shock.

"_Close, but no cigar, mein freunde. You know, you really ought to have improved your firewalls..."_


	8. One Down

One Down...

"Now, then, what have we here?" Shepard grinned from his end of the connection. "A doctor's surgery? Oh, dear me, could it be that I've managed to break something important? I do believe I have; you're wheezing, old boy. A collapsed lung, perhaps? Well, I bring glad tidings. I know just the thing to fix your little issue; it'll render it entirely irrelevant..."

At the other end, Charon fought feverishly to regain control of his omnitool, trying to hack through Shepard's firewalls even as the N7 raised new ones and even managed to lock him out of the system still further. Hacking had never been the focus of the terrorist's computing expertise, more focussed on science and invention as he was, even if his skills were more than adequate to deal with the Alliance's systems. For Shepard, however, it was an essential vice that allowed him access to what could transpire to be crucial information- and it was one of the few things that the Alliance had neglected to note and put in his file. Probably because Shepard had never been caught.

Charon had little choice but to wrench the processor out of his microcomputer before Shepard had him locked out of the system entirely, at which point he would doubtless have started to play with some of the omnitool's more interesting functions. Fortunately, he had had an adequate window with which to memorise his route to the surgery. Less fortunately, Shepard now knew his current position and wouldn't have to resort to memory to be able to intercept him as he still had his own computer. Furthermore, his omnitool had been the key to using most of his armours advanced upgrades. Shepard had the upper hand, now, and both men knew it.

The terrorist ran at a half crouch, leaving his sniper rifle as a dead weight and desperately trying to stay below the assassin's line of sight as he made his way towards the stairwell that would allow him to leave the building and proceed towards his salvation, yet in his admittedly necessary haste, he gave away his position once too often, allowing Shepard to pepper the walls around him with fragments of shattered glass every time he shot out a window, forcing his quarry to flinch away from the projectiles lest they blind him.

Charon reached the door to the stairwell, braced himself for a moment, having the fortunate effect of causing Shepard's aim to continue past him. Then, the terrorist burst through the opening door, and dived away from his hunter's reflexive shot, which luckily only smashed through the fleeing man's kinetic barriers without so much as brushing against his armour. Wheezing, the nihilist scrambled to his feet and made for the ground floor, each bound carrying him at least three steps, and more often than not sending him slamming painfully into the wall at the end of each flight.

By the end, his legs were attempting to give way with each new impact, his heart was hammering such a fast tempo that he felt the pounding in his ears stronger than his faltering steps, and his diaphragm was taxed such that each and every breath was a fresh agony. He practically fell through the door to the floor that opened out onto the street, and cut his way through the back of the building to the supply entrance, following a route that was intended to put as much distance between himself and his pursuer as possible, whilst keeping him under cover and still bringing him to his destination.

His harrowed appearance, covered liberally in his own sweat and blood in equal measure, brought him more than a few appraising glances in the streets, still patrolled by ruffians and rioters of varying ages, yet the cavalier sprays from his customised machine pistols discouraged them from looking his way twice.

His mind, in the meantime, was flitting frantically between the two options of deviating still further from his course, and hoping to lose his assailant, along with the driving need to fix what would shortly become a crippling injury, and only hadn't already due to certain improvements he'd made to his genes retroactively.

He was caught between the two fears that the N7 assassin would catch up to him before he could reinflate his lung, and that he'd cut his losses and simply ensure he got to the surgery first. The latter was unlikely; the man had to know that it would simply drive Charon elsewhere for his treatment... _taking time I just don't have, _the nihilist realised.

Meanwhile, Shepard had returned to the streets himself, having retrieved his Kessler sidearm, and was sprinting along a route that would allow him to intercept his quarry before he lost his hard-bought advantage. He was, furthermore, debating the exact same options as his prey. _I can move faster, surely, so he'll have to deviate to have any hope of buying himself time for treatment before I reach him. And yet, his time is limited before he'll simply collapse... running on fifty per cent respiratory efficiency isn't something one can simply shrug off..._

He hurtled out onto the street where he'd originally expected to cut the terrorist off, sidearm at the ready; span around wildly, looking for some hint of his target-

And caught a glimpse of a silhouette flitting round a corner some way ahead of his position and off of the other man's predicted route, moving into yet another alleyway. Bringing up his omnitool as he ran, Shepard took an approximately parallel route, aware that he'd be as likely to run into a bullet as catch his prey if he followed the man's own route; and both probabilities combined were still lower than Thaddaeus would be willing to accept.

The effort required to maintain Charon's exertions was constantly increasing at a rate that he couldn't possibly sustain for long. Black spots were appearing in his vision as a result of oxygen deprivation, and his muscles ached as a result of having to respire without it. The effect of him pushing himself as hard as he could, furthermore, wasn't even the equivalent speed of his long-distance running gait. His wheezing gasps became still more ragged and painful, and he felt ready to enter tachycardia, if not full on cardiac arrest. The probability that he would survive was becoming more and more remote by the second, he knew.

Shepard felt far from fresh himself, but the tantalising prospect of immanent victory drove him onward with a powerful chemical high, the pleasure centres in his brain humming to such an extent that he found himself stimulating a pressure point on his wrist to ensure that he stayed focussed. Whilst Charon's disadvantages might make him a weaker adversary, and potentially more prone to mistakes, at the height of his desperation, he could also feasibly be at his most dangerous. Underestimating him would be a large enough mistake to render the N7's hard earned advantages meaningless, at which point they might keep fighting for days before one of them broke the stalemate again. Not the most attractive of concepts.

Charon paused, leaned against a wall, trying to quiet his pounding heart and strained, ragged breathing, before he moved into a building, pistols drawn and senses arrayed cautiously against the prospect of an ambush. The building was sterile in its lifelessness; no movement of any kind within, although to the terrorist's paranoid gaze, each shadow merited a second glance and each corner a third.

Shepard stalked through shadow at with at minimum an equivalent level of caution to his prey; his own hands occupied carrying a knife and his sidearm and ready to employ them to lethal effect at a fragment of a moment's notice. Wraithlike, he slipped through a door, before vanishing once more.

At his wit's end, Charon finally staggered through a door into the room within which his salvation awaited him.

Or so he thought. On closer, desperate inspection, the nihilist saw that all the medical equipment, drugs, and supplies in general had been roughly removed. He groaned, realising he hadn't considered the possibility that looters might get there first and be foolish enough to take equipment that didn't hold much in the way of value. Then, as he turned to leave, he saw something that ached in his diaphragm like a blow, something that informed him that he had in all likelihood been killed by a far more actively malevolent party than mere looters. A single word was carved into the wall, crudely and hastily, in block capitals.

_CHECK_

At last perceiving his folly, Charon raised his machine pistols and scanned the room, even examining the ceiling, horrified and certain that he must have missed a spot in the room from which Thanatos would leap-

And saw a shadow moving outside the room, via the translucent viewing port in the door.

Charon didn't wait, but immediately opened fire, unleashing a torrent of rounds into the door, many of which penetrated, although the terrorist managed to avoid damaging circuits crucial to the door's functionality. Tensely, with little choice left open to him, he moved towards the door, and activated the panel, commanding it to open, watched as it complied far too slowly for his liking-

Nothing awaited him on the other side. No body, no blood, and no ambush. Of that last, he was unconvinced. He edged out into the corridor, spinning a full three hundred and sixty degrees as soon as he was capable of seeing around the corners, and still finding nothing. He checked the ceiling immediately afterwards. Still nothing. His nerves screamed at him, now, his heart hammered in his chest even louder than it had been during his flight, and his breath rattled in his throat like that of a man on his deathbed. It was an appropriate simile.

He edged slowly down the corridor, twitching the aim of his weapons between each of the many shadows multiple times a second. Perhaps it was just his hands shaking. The door, sighing ponderously to a close, had him spinning to face the source of the noise, his fingers already locked on the triggers of his weapons. He had to force himself to cease fire before his weapons overheated. He tried desperately to force himself to calm down, and failed abysmally.

And then-

Something moved in the shadows. It wasn't a significant movement, and he didn't react for a moment, considering the chance that he had mistakenly identified another dark spot in his vision as a threat. Then he realised what he had seen. A human shaped shadow, shifting ever so slightly, as if leaning on one foot before the lunge, arms seeming to raise-

Charon opened fire, his muzzle flashes serving to light the area slightly as he retreated, aware that he was in no condition to tangle with Shepard at close quarters at that moment-

It took him another moment to recognise two other new pieces of information his senses had seen fit to provide him with. The first was that there appeared to be nothing where he had actually seen the movement. No, not quite nothing, there was an ever so slight hint of a shadow, in between the strobing flashes coming from the barrel of his gun.

The other piece of stimuli was that there was someone behind him.

That someone had a knife at his throat. It was held carefully, so that only a backwards or an upwards movement would allow him to escape the blade. Yet, his back already right up against this person, with no room in that direction, and the man's other arm was draped around his shoulders, exerting a noticeable pressure in order to keep the terrorist's feet firmly on the ground.

No prospect of escape beyond some miraculous distraction-and even then, it was likely that his assailant would simply slash his captive's throat as he turned to regard this new threat. After all, only a mild movement would provide a sufficient increase in pressure to break the skin of Charon's neck, which would at minimum rupture his carotid artery, and would probably ruin his jugular and his windpipe simultaneously. It would be a quick death, if not entirely painless. After all, Shepard _was_ a professional.

"Check and mate." The N7 hissed in his defeated rival's ear. "I think you ought to know that you actually came significantly closer to ending me than any other single person I've ever encountered. You've done impressively well-for an amateur."

It was unclear who truly caused the terrorist known as Charon's death, in the end. It had been at that specific moment that Shepard had intended to make the cut that would open his enemy's throat and set in motion the man's demise, yet at that same moment, the nihilist, in one final absurd, defiant gesture, lived up to his creed and pushed forward against the assassin's blade.

Shepard reported the fatality as his kill.

Had he been alive, Charon would doubtless have protested to the contrary.

It would probably be most accurate, at least according to Schrödinger, to say that the man was killed by mutual consent. Both parties had certainly contributed to his destruction.

Shepard didn't release the body until it had ceased its throes, and its temperature had begun to descend to that of room temperature. It paid to be certain, after all.

Then, he activated his omnitool and set up a communications link with Command. "Operative Thanatos reporting in. Tango is down, and unlikely to arise again."

"_Please clarify, Commander."_

Shepard sighed exasperatedly. Someone _always_ had to ruin his moment, didn't they?

"The job's done. The bastard's dead."

In spite of his annoyance, his lips stretched into a wolfish grin as he looked down on the corpse of the man who had claimed to be his equal. In terms of ability, and intellect, and vanity, he had been correct. But he was dead, and Shepard was alive, and what matter if it had only been down to circumstance, in the end? After all, as Napoleon famously said; "Give me a lucky general."

Most of all, it was pleasant to experience victory. Unqualified, unequivocal, pure, simple, _victory_. It had been a while since he'd last been able to; he was elated to have finally broken the trend.

Shepard glanced down at his microcomputer to receive the co-ordinates of the extraction point, before lifting the body up onto his shoulders, careful to avoid staining his coat, and going on his way.

Charon's body would likely be useful in a variety of ways; for one, there was the technology he'd put into his armour, including, most importantly, his cloaking device. Secondly, it would doubtless be beneficial to the Alliance's image to be able to prove that the perpetrator of the bio weapon strike was indeed dead. This might also have the happy effect of demonstrating that not all of those who worked for the Systems Alliance were woefully incompetent.

At least, not anymore...


	9. Unwanted Acclaim

Unwanted Acclaim

Forty-eight hours later, Shepard stepped silently into Hogan's office, to once again find the Major watching him, and absently sipping an unknown liquid from a glass identical to the one used at their first meeting.

"Shepard-how are you, my boy?" He greeted the assassin, gesturing affably with the hand occupied holding his refreshment.

"Alive. Ambivalent. Adequate, I suppose, or some suitable equivalent." Thaddaeus answered dryly, as he took the seat opposite his commanding officer.

"Well, you did a grand job on Terra Nova, Shepard. A grand job. You exceeded even my expectations." The Irishman said, toasting the N7 before taking another draught.

"Yes, I hope I've proven that I'm trustworthy, now?" The psychopath agreed, an easy, if cold, smile on his face, though he watched his superior carefully without as much as a blink.

"My dear fellow!" Hogan protested, injury in his voice as he gesticulated expansively. "How can you suggest that I might even have considered anything to the contrary? The very concept never so much as crossed my mind!"

"Of course not." Shepard agreed with a more genuine smile, the undercurrent of sarcasm in his tone indicating quite clearly that he didn't believe a word of it. "Let us say no more of it, shall we?"

"Quite, quite. Something to drink, then? A toast to your success?" The Major offered, producing a crystal carafe half filled with an identical caramel-hued liquid to the one in his glass, along with another identical drinking vessel.

Perhaps surprisingly, Shepard and alcohol were not on familiar terms with one another. He had sampled it before quite some time ago, enough to be able to identify the taste in case anyone tried to dose him covertly, and found that he didn't enjoy it, particularly. Furthermore, the very idea of impairing one's wits seemed downright foolish, especially when one had a list of enemies as long as he did. He sat, eying the offered beverage thoughtfully.

"It's Cointreau." The Irishman said reassuringly, filling the glass and proffering it. "An orange flavoured spirit. Decades old, rare, and quite expensive. I think you'll find it to your taste."

The N7 took the glass, held it before his face and examined the colour, before taking a cautious sniff of the drink, as he knew was customary. The aroma was not unpleasant. He hesitated before the sip, however, still considering. Hogan had no reason to want to kill him that he was aware of; in fact as a valuable asset he'd expect some sort of gesture to attempt to maintain a more affable association between them. Which could, of course, be what this was.

On the other hand, it was entirely possible that there was a key piece of information of which Shepard was unaware, which would alter his perception of the situation entirely. He was more than slightly tempted to just run a quick scan of the liquid via his omnitool, on which he'd installed and tweaked a number of programmes designed to detect substances that would be toxic should he come into contact with them. He was hesitant to show Hogan the true extent of his suspicion, however, as it could jeopardise their professional relationship. And the longer he paused, the more suspicion he demonstrated.

_Ah, sod it._

He drank.

The liquid was indeed flavoured with oranges, and slightly sweet, but neither attribute was excessively obvious. The alcohol in the drink burned at the interior of his mouth slightly, but was smoother than he'd expected, likely a by-product of the drink's age. He savoured the small mouthful he'd siphoned from the glass for a few seconds, amongst other things trying to detect any flavour that could be associated with an illicit additive, before swallowing, feeling the heat travel down his throat to settle comfortably in his stomach. He considered the aftertaste for a moment, before nodding approvingly to Hogan, who had barely blinked the entire time, and taking another sip.

"You were right." The assassin conceded, mirroring Hogan's pleased expression as they raised their glasses.

"To victory." The older man said.

"Victory." Shepard echoed, before they both took another mouthful.

"How's that wound of yours, then?" The Irishman enquired conversationally. His eyes, however, had regained that speculative gleam that Shepard had noted on their first meeting. Thaddaeus put his glass down before answering to give him time to consider the implications of his answer.

"A gut wound. I sealed it with medigel, which kept me on my feet and did half of the fixing for them, but the doctors have put me on light duties for another few days to ensure that the healing process is completed properly. I, however, feel fine." If he was honest, Shepard wasn't thrilled at the decision. 'Light duties' meant remaining in his quarters, as he was still something of an outsider amongst the marines, and Hogan meant to limit what was known of the Butcher's presence if he could. He'd exhausted most of the potential ideas for keeping monotony at bay in a restricted environment during his time in the care of Henry Lawson, and he was, quite frankly, bored of that scenario.

"Tedious, isn't it?" Hogan commented. "Still, a couple of hundred years ago, something like that would have killed you."

"Yes, and perhaps a couple of hundred years in the future, I'd be able to simply shrug it off and go on as if nothing had happened, with no ill effects." Shepard retorted dourly. It irritated him that some people thought that the fact that the situation could be worse was a reason to be happy; surely, by the same token, the fact that the situation could be better should negate any positive effects, unless there was a flaw in the person's thinking. Which, of course, there would be. Furthermore, positive thinking _never_ helped with a situation. Action did.

"Well, as it happens, I do have something for you that could technically qualify as light duties. Relatively speaking, in comparison to your other assignments, at least-if you're interested. It would also tell me if you're ready to go on another mission that I have in mind for you."

"Oh? Do tell." Shepard prompted, leaning forward.

"We've got another new recruit. A bit of a misfit, really, with a criminal record, although while he's been arrested, no charges have ever been brought, due to a lack of evidence. He enlisted to escape some charges that were more likely to stick, and was picked out for our division. He's an arrogant sort of fellow, too, and I thought, if you were amenable to the suggestion, that you could give us your professional opinion of him."

That meant sparring with him. A predatory glint entered Shepard's eye.

"I'll tell you what I think of him. What's his name?"

"Kai Leng."

Shepard rose, to leave and prepare.

"Don't you want to finish your drink?"

"If you want me to beat him; I think it best that I be sober at the time." Shepard grinned, before turning and taking his leave.

* * *

The two men stood facing each other in the sparring ring, a few metres apart, both lacking shirts, and barefoot. Shepard's wounded abdomen was smothered in clean white bandage, however, the dressing still allowed sufficient flexibility for his purposes. Beyond that, his torso was unmarked by the conflicts in which he had participated, unlike his face, although even there only a couple of scars were clearly visible in spite of his pale skin, the most noticeable being a couple of pale lines diagonally tracing the socket of his left eye and continuing on through his eyebrow.

He stood completely still, already in a combat stance, watching his opponent without blinking, analysing and assessing already.

Kai Leng was a smaller man, clearly of Asian extraction even if one was foolish enough not to consider his name, the other glaringly obvious clues being his skin tone and the structure of his face. A wild mane of long black hair was drawn back out of his eyes and into a ponytail. Unlike Shepard, his skin was entirely unblemished by scars, although he seemed to have a few generic tattoos, and he stood, bouncing on the balls of his feet, in a combat stance from which he launched the occasional feint, all of which Shepard ignored, or appeared to.

Both men had clearly defined muscle, but that didn't mean that either of them could ever be mistaken for a body builder. Their muscles were lean, and tough, purely for function, not aesthetic. Leng watched his foe with a gaze that was feverish in its intensity, a stare that Shepard returned flatly, giving away nothing.

Leng was the first to mount an offensive.

He charged forwards, and opened with a _flying kick_, of all things! Shepard merely raised an eyebrow and bent out of the way of the blow, before slapping aside a jab to the head, forestalling another kick with a precisely directed knee, and finally sending a fist into his foe's abdomen before disengaging, his breathing still light and easy, in clear contrast with his opponent.

"Do you honestly think you can beat me?" The Asian growled, before diving into a roll, pushing himself up on his hands and lashing out with a vicious kick whilst upside down that Shepard quite simply avoided.

"Yes." He stated flatly, heavily implying with his tone that it would be no great thing. Leng's momentum carried him onwards, allowing him to push himself off of the ground and land, upright on his feet, before sending a flurry of combined punches and kicks at the slightly older man. Thaddaeus responded almost exclusively passively, only acting offensively to pre-empt the few blows that he would have trouble parrying or evading. In essence, he allowed the recruit to exhaust himself with admittedly very fast and impressive acrobatic moves, which were simply not enough to get past his far more efficient and thus even quicker defences.

Grinding briefly to a halt, the younger man demanded the inevitable "Do you even know who I am?" Shepard would have rolled his eyes skyward, had he been foolish enough to risk taking his eyes off of a foe unnecessarily. Instead, he deigned to respond with another sighed "Yes," this one ever so slightly exasperated and rather more condescending. On the offensive once more, and apparently not interested in hearing his opponent's responses, the Asian boasted "I'm Kai Leng; the best killer in the Alliance."

_That_ was a bit much to be allowed. Shepard clinically slammed a blow into the younger man's torso whilst he was partway through one of his many unnecessary leaps, sending him off course and off balance to sprawl at Thaddaeus' feet. He glared up at the man incredulously. "Sorry, old boy. That particular post's been taken, although I'm sure you could try for the top ten." The Commander mocked him icily.

Leng's eyes darkened, and his face was twisted and distorted by pure fury that heralded the total and utter loss of whatever self-restraint the man had had to begin with. He sprang to his feet, already consumed by a biotic aura that had Shepard eyeing him with unease. He was no longer entirely certain whether this was nothing more than sparring, ending with one man's submission, or whether Leng now intended to kill him.

This was very definitely a problem. If Leng was trying to kill him, then he wasn't going to mess around toying with him, or trying to beat him into submission; he was going to focus on killing or at the very least incapacitating him first. However, if he went too far when Leng was still sparring, he'd cost the division a potentially valuable resource, even if the man did need to be taught that he still had more to learn. That could have consequences that Shepard would rather avoid; according to the Alliance's databases, he was dead. No-one would notice if his body caught up with the records.

Jerking his mind back to the present, he evaded a blow that his opponent had reinforced with a heavy gravitational field, and decided that he had spent more than enough time being passive-aggressive, regardless of the Asian's intentions.

A good few minutes after his foe, Shepard went on the offensive.

The shift in the flow of the combat was immediate and obvious, and if Leng had even a shred of rationality within him, he would no longer be able to deceive himself into believing that Shepard had been forced on the defensive by the onslaught. That said, offensive action always carries risk; when attacking your opponent you are more vulnerable to being attacked, when enacting your own stratagems you risk opening yourself to those of your rival.

As such, Shepard began to receive blows as well as dealing them out; an overextended disorienting slap to Leng's head was caught by the Asian, who promptly attempted to place him in a lock, and drag him down to the ground. Going against the lock would dislocate his shoulder; whilst it wouldn't doom him, it would make victory a significantly more difficult proposition. Instead, with his right hand the Commander directed a blow into his opponent's abdomen, driving the air from his lungs and following up with a savage blow to the chin with the base of his palm that sent Leng's head snapping backwards, blood leaking into his mouth from his bitten tongue.

Despite his state, the younger man's grip on Shepard's arm remained firm; however, the N7 still had a contingency plan. Whilst Leng shook off the daze that afflicted him, Shepard went with the lock, pulling himself towards the ground and the other man with him, before suddenly launching himself explosively upwards into a flip that left his own arm straight and his foe's twisted. At this point, the assassin grasped his opponent's wrist in a grip of his own before he could disengage, fixed the man with a stare, and smiled.

Shocked out of his incapacitating rage by the feat, and the sudden reversal it had caused, Leng simply looked back.

"Who are you?"

Shepard sighed. "Not even a month dead, and I've already been forgotten," he tutted "Do you even bother to watch the news? I'm Thaddaeus Shepard." Kai Leng's eyes widened in recognition. "Oh, so you _have_ heard the name..."

"The Butcher of Torfan. The Hero of Elysium." Leng said, something curiously akin to respect, perhaps even reverence, in his voice. This time, with his opponent trapped, Shepard _did_ roll his eyes. "You did humanity proud, whatever the Alliance said. You scared the fuck out of those alien bastards, and got us the respect, the fear, that we deserve."

Intellectually, Shepard had expected that in spite of, or perhaps even as a consequence of, the collective revulsion with which the galactic community had responded to his actions on Torfan, he'd probably gained a few fans amongst the xenophobes, as well as those who were simply happy to watch the galaxy burn, for whatever reason. He'd never expected that he'd have to endure a conversation with one of them, though. Fortunately, in this case most of all, he could always resort to violence.

Catching Leng off guard, he yanked on the man's captive right arm, pulling him into a _vicious_ kick that smashed into his diaphragm, doubling him up, a situation Shepard exploited by stomping on the back of the Asian's knee, sending him down to the ground, his breathing now coming in wheezing gasps. Gasps that, after a few seconds, were interspersed with hoarse chuckles.

"Do you yield?" Shepard inquired coldly.

"Not yet." Leng said weakly, then, in spite of his apparent difficulty in speaking, launched a biotic field at Shepard with his free arm that hurled him backwards forcefully. Shepard managed to complete a vertical flip that left him landing in a slightly awkward crouch, just in time to receive Leng's renewed assault.

He was tired, and aching, and having difficulty breathing, all of which made the Asian rather less inclined towards the acrobatics he had displayed previously. This actually made him slightly more efficient in his movements, and cancelled out his handicaps. However, Shepard was already plotting his downfall, realising that it would have to be done carefully, not simply putting him down, but preventing him from using his biotics to escape or regain the upper hand. This would require the element of surprise, as well as-

One of Leng's blows circumvented Shepard's defences, leaving him off balance and vulnerable when Leng dropped and swept his legs out from under him at knee height. Shepard fell, and Leng pounced-

To find their positions suddenly reversed, as Shepard deftly used the Asian's momentum against him, planting a blow that drove the air from Leng's lungs, and sent him continuing over the Commander's head before landing on _his_ back, continuing the forward motion to sit up and begin to scramble to his feet and continue-

Only to find himself being pulled back down by the N7, his neck firmly secured in a choke hold and his arms pinned to his sides by Shepard's legs. Leng struggled to loosen his captor's grasp, futilely attempting to bash his head against the chest behind him despite barely being able to move it at all, his legs thrashing wildly, trying to gain the purchase required to lift himself and gain some leverage, all the while his need for air gradually increasing.

Desperately, he accessed his biotics, using them to send both he and his captor into the air a metre off of the floor, before slamming them back down again, causing a grunt from Shepard, and a further tightened grip around his neck, but no concessions, and no leverage. Dark spots swimming before his eyes, the blood pounding in his head, Leng put all of his strength into one last struggle, before he went limp-

And tapped out.

It took a moment for Shepard to register the feeble gesture, a moment more to interpret it, and another to consider whether it was wise to release his foe, who hadn't seemed inclined towards following the rules beforehand, and was unlikely to be a gracious loser, even to the _iconic_ Butcher. Then, he decided that it was safe to let the man go, if only on the basis that he was now unconscious, and any longer might result in brain damage, amongst other things. Shepard doubted this Kai Leng had the neurones to spare.

Releasing him, he rolled the Asian's dead weight off of him, and got to his feet.

* * *

"Congratulations on yet another success, Shepard. Well, what did you think of him?"

Having showered and changed, Shepard was sipping from a glass of Cointreau as he considered. It dulled some of the aches that were still uncomfortably fresh from his bout with Kai Leng less than an hour ago. The consideration was more over finding the right words to give his verdict a suitable gravity than any uncertainty about the man he had just fought. When it came to this particular subject, Shepard was very certain of his opinion.

"Kai Leng is a liability. He's not without talent, I'll admit, but what he does lack is refinement, restraint, self control. He's a blunt instrument to be unleashed with a few simple directives to which his adherence is non-essential, because there's no guarantee that he'll end up hitting the target you aim him at. What's worse; he's a zealot. A xenophobe with tendencies towards neo-fascism, someone not to be trusted with anything important or delicate, if you intend to keep him at all."

"I do. What you say is all true, yet you forget to add one thing; he believes in the Alliance's goal, the preservation and advancement of humanity. He'll be loyal to someone other than himself, unlike some other operatives I've encountered," He gave Shepard a pointed stare that the N7 returned brazenly, a smirk on his lips, "_And,_ he's got the capacity to overcome the other difficulties that you mentioned, under the correct tutelage."

"I sincerely hope that you aren't suggesting that I be the one to train him." Shepard said mildly, a quiet note of warning in his voice.

"You were one possibility, its true; after all, he already respects your achievements, doubly so because you bested him in the ring. However, I think we can both agree that your time can be spent far more valuably than attempting to reform and refine deviant individuals into useful weapons." Shepard inclined his head only slightly in agreement, yet somehow managed to make the gesture appear emphatic. "Particularly in the case of your next mission. Since the Skyllian Blitz, and your death, things between the Alliance and the Hegemony have settled down, at least on a public, superficial level. Talks are being held with the Council again, and there have been no further offensive operations on either side's part."

"I get the impression that I'm going to change that." Shepard remarked.

"Not quite." Hogan said with a grin that said that this particular machination had been one of his own devising. "A group of batarian malcontents has contacted us through roundabout channels via the Terminus Systems, some of them belonging to the Hegemony's bureaucracy, some to their armed forces. They want to set up an insurgency, and eventually to stage a coup. They're asking us to supply them with munitions and equipment, in exchange for which they will pass us information on batarian deployments, technological developments, future raids, etc."

"So, in effect, they're paying us with information for the privilege to be able to fight our enemies for us? Very well played, sir."

"I rather liked it myself. Now, obviously we have to take the munitions to them and make the exchange in Hegemony space, and some members of the Admiralty don't approve of dealing with the batarians at all, which means that this has to be a covert operation, making this our domain. This will require a delicate and versatile touch; as such, I'm sending you to handle it, although I would ask that you be discrete about your identity lest it provoke an... _unreasonable_ reaction. Besides, I'm sure we both agree that it's best for you to remain dead." Shepard nodded, drained his glass, and rose to leave. Hogan forestalled him with a gesture.

"One other thing. Operating in Hegemony space carries with it a certain risk. It is imperative that the Hegemony not discover a human presence in their territory; they would retaliate, and we would lose our standing with the Council. You will do whatever is necessary to avoid detection. To facilitate this, the boys in the lab have managed to cannibalise that cloaking technology Charon was using, and incorporate it into your armour. It won't conceal you for long without overheating the power source, but it shouldn't be necessary in any case."


	10. A Delicate Touch

A/N: I apologise for my absence; I've been away from the internet a while and it's taken me a while to get back into the swing of things, as it were. Still, I'm back, and I've found my rhythm again, so on with the story...

* * *

A Delicate Touch

The first impression Shepard got about the godforsaken rock he was on was that it was bitterly, _bitterly_ cold. The air temperature was twenty degrees Celsius below freezing, and the fact that there was a howling blizzard that yanked powerfully on his ankle-length coat and had made landing all but impossible in the first place made matters significantly worse. The second was that this world was _bright_, which was somewhat unsurprising given that it was encased in ice and snow which gave every surface a glare that stabbed at the assassin's retinas, even with the compensating tint of the goggles of his black recon hood.

There was, however, a monomolecular lining of silver to the situation, which was that with visibility reduced to the point that Shepard could _just_ see his feet if he strained to do so, and the storm playing havoc with the shuttle's instruments, the probability of being detected even if anyone could be bothered to scan this wretched excuse for a planet was practically zero. Oh, and it meant that he didn't have to bother with arctic camouflage.

Using the shuttle as a point of reference, he managed to make his way to the coordinates of the rendezvous, only to find it deserted. Not that that meant much; there could be a squad of melee specialists ten metres away, and he'd be completely oblivious to their presence, and, theoretically at least, they of his. Switching the filters on his recon hood to thermal gave his vision a slight boost, insofar as that he could see a slight temperature spike in the distance on three sides, which left him almost completely surrounded. An unfortunate position-if they knew he was there. If not, well...

"_On your knees, human." _Damn.

"Operative Thanatos, Systems Alliance N7 Covert Operations Division. I'm here to make a munitions delivery, although I was under the impression you didn't want it coming from the barrel of my gun." Shepard called over the wind's dirge, keeping his tone as mild as he could, though his right hand crept towards the Karpov attached to his right thigh.

"_Then where are our weapons?"_ The batarian voice spoke triumphantly.

"They aren't _your_ weapons yet, friend. The package remains the property of my employers until you show us the intelligence you offered. As such, the weapons have been hidden, and will remain so until I can verify your end of the transaction. Which also involves identifying yourselves."

"_Stop being a fool and give him the countersign, Rachak!"_

"_Fine! Rachak Dal'resah, formerly of the Leviathan research project, now a... malcontent, conspiring with your upstart species against my own. Good enough?"_

"It'll do. Shall we get started?"

The heat signatures converged, and resolved vaguely into five batarians approaching him, armed with an assortment of weapons which were all trained on him. Shepard subtly brought his hand away from his sidearm, wanting to bring negotiations to a more civil state if possible. In any case, if they were determined to be hostile, it would be a simple enough matter to evade and even annihilate them in these weather conditions, particularly with his cloaking device.

A sixth form resolved too, slightly off to one side, anomalous in its unarmed state and the fact that the batarian's first words spoken in person were "Put your weapons down, you imbeciles. We need him, and not riddled with holes- not that any of you lot are likely to be able to manage anything of the sort..."

Surprisingly, his comrades complied, if with poor grace, and moved aside to allow the moderate to approach the human. "Katarn Dal'rho, formerly a Lieutenant in the Special Interventions Unit, now the leader of this merry band of malcontents."

Despite, or perhaps to an extent as a result of, Katarn's more amicable manner, Shepard was immediately more wary of this one than the entirety of his escort. Not much was really known of the SIU, which was probably one reason for its infamy, but anyone that had held a commission amidst their ranks was someone to be watched with extreme caution and prejudice, if the watcher's survival instincts were intact, at least.

However, when a hand was proffered, Shepard shook it, taking care to ensure that if his head was tilted, it was tilted to the left, which indicated respect in the batarian culture. "Well, it's good to see that someone has a proper grasp on the realities of the situation." He said cordially, although he couldn't quite manage warmth. "I suppose you, like my superiors, are eager for our little transaction to run as quickly and smoothly as possible."

"Of course. Our base is this way." The batarian said, gesturing back over his shoulder, then moving ahead. Shepard followed close behind, but with enough of a gap between him and Katarn that the batarian would be seen a comfortable period of time before him. And to give him a window within which to react if he became hostile. The assassin was rather less concerned about those behind him.

The low entrance to the underground network of tunnels loomed out of the driving snow within a couple of minutes, although Shepard wasn't paying as much attention to the passage of time as he was to space, in the event that he needed to make a quick exit. Whilst Katarn seemed trusting enough not to insist on a blindfold or other such absurdities, he wasn't enough of a fool to allow Thaddaeus to see the access codes to the base, which they entered shortly thereafter.

The base had been more or less carved out of the ice that covered the planet, and its interior was Spartan in nature, the only constant being metallic panels on the ground to increase the friction of the floor. Shepard was escorted into a communal area that appeared to double as both mess and briefing room, where, so it appeared, the vast majority of the cell had gathered to greet the human representative, with an almost overwhelmingly hostile atmosphere.

Someone else might have been intimidated; however, Shepard was used to being surrounded by those that despised him. At Katarn's beckoning, he stood before the entire room, at the ex-lieutenant's side, presumably the focus of some sort of morale-boosting speech; after all, the specimens assembled here seemed far from optimistic. Not that they had much to be optimistic about, when one considered the probability of success against a state with the resources and scruples of the Hegemony.

"Brothers," Katarn began "This is Operative Thanatos, of the Human Alliance's N7 division. He is here to demonstrate his species' support for our cause, our battle for freedom from oppression. He is here to deliver our guns, and in return, receive information that will aid his own organisation's struggle against our mutual, hated enemy. Many of you hold reservations about cooperation with humans, I know. Many of you resent the defeats of Torfan and Elysium and the subsequent condemnation of our race. Yet much of what you have heard has been mere propaganda, devised by our rulers to drive a wedge between us and those who would assist us in our plight. The true enemy we must face is not the other races of the galaxy, but those who would dominate our own; and today, we come one step closer to thwarting their designs."

Shepard had to concede, Karnak knew his way around a rousing speech. Where before there had been flat glares, filled with animosity, for both the human and the leader who had brought him here, there were now respectful nods, and even salutes for the batarian. There were, however, a few disgruntled individuals, this 'Rachak' amongst them, slouching against the wall at the back of the room, whose behaviour hadn't been altered in the slightest.

"Return to your duties." Katarn instructed, and the room emptied whilst he turned to address Shepard. "I'll take you to review the data, and then you can give us the co-ordinates of the cache and be on your way." Shepard nodded his consent, and followed the batarian through the base to the main computer lab, where the data was waiting on a terminal screen.

The matter of data authentication was a critical one; however, if the Alliance had been able to determine whether all of the data was accurate on the spot acquiring it would have been an utterly pointless exercise. However, Hogan had requested that certain specific pieces of information be available to the Operative in charge of the exchange, some of which were pieces that the Alliance already held, allowing them to cross-reference their data with that of the malcontents and establish its quality.

Shepard quickly determined that all of the pieces he was able to compare were identical; Hogan had clearly struck gold with this operation.

That was when the base's power died.

Behind him, Katarn groaned. "Honestly, sometimes I think I've got more incompetents than malcontents. This is why we need your equipment; without it, we won't stand a chance. Wait here; I'll go check the generators."

Shepard switched to infra-red again to watch him depart, fully alert to his surroundings; narcissistic it might be, but there was a distinct possibility that this was the prelude to an assassination attempt, and if that were the case, Shepard was determined that they wouldn't catch him off-guard. His right hand found its way to the Karpov at his thigh, and his left was poised to retrieve its twin concealed beneath his coat.

He remained completely still in that pose for minutes on end, his back to a wall, his breathing silent and his eyes roving around the room, looking for the merest hint of something amiss.

Then the lights came back on.

Thaddaeus didn't relax completely, although he altered the filters in his hood to receive visible light again, and he brought his hands away from his weapons. He was still alone in a base that held a number of beings that were more interested in seeing him dead than seeing the benefits this deal would bring them; Rachak, for one.

He didn't have long to wait before Katarn returned, though; not that the batarian made him any more inclined to relax, given the batarian's history, but he seemed to be the closest thing to an ally that Shepard had in this base.

"It appears that someone else fixed the problem before I was needed." The batarian announced. They were about to return to business, when the piercing wail of alarms reverberated around the base. If Shepard's pessimistic prediction was correct, business might have to be postponed until the situation was dealt with. Katarn seemed to be of the same view, and together they rushed back to the communal area.

If Shepard had felt that his reception had been hostile earlier, this one was positively _ferocious_. Weapons were trained on him immediately, and only instinct prompting him to duck behind Katarn as a meat shield prevented his grey matter from being expelled from his head to coat the wall behind when actual shots were fired.

"HOLD!" Katarn bellowed, his rage palpable, even intimidating, in spite of the fact that he seemed to be unarmed. His subordinates hesitated, then lowered their weapons. "What do you fools think you're _doing!?_" He demanded.

"Bringing a killer to justice." Said their de-facto leader, the one slowest to lower his weapon.

_Ah, shit..._ Shepard groaned internally, surreptitiously drawing his Karpov and preparing to put it to his current advocate's head.

"This _human_," The batarian said, twisting the noun into a foul condemnation "murdered our comrade, Rachak Dal'resah."

Shepard was partway through the process of taking Katarn hostage and instigating his escape when his mind registered that the accusation he faced was not the one he'd expected, or even one of which he was guilty. He froze, and brought his weapon back down, thankfully having never brought it into his accuser's line of sight.

"Wait, what?"


	11. Private Investigations

Again, sorry for the late update. My holidays have come to an end, so I can't guarantee frequent updates, but I will keep working on this in my spare moments. Believe me, this wretched franchise occupies the vast majority of my thoughts and I doubt I'd be able to dislodge it even if I wanted to, which I don't. So however long it is, understand that I haven't forgotten it. On with the story.

* * *

Private Investigations

"I didn't kill your comrade." Shepard sighed, stepping out from behind his cover now that the malcontents' violent tendencies, if not their suspicions, had been quieted. "Why would I? I'm here to complete a mutually beneficial transaction and be on my way. Why would I complicate the issue?"

His accuser began to reply, but was forestalled by Katarn's intervention. "The human is right! He had no reason to kill any of us-and the point is irrelevant; he was with me, reviewing the data during the power cut." Faced with this, the batarian gaped briefly, before regaining control of his faculties and ducking his head in embarrassment.

Shepard forced himself not to react to Katarn's deception any more than to incline his head towards him in a grave gesture of acknowledgement. Why had he lied? From his perspective, it wasn't impossible that Shepard _was_ responsible for his follower's murder, and there had not yet been any real investigation which would throw doubt on Thaddaeus' guilt. It was possible that as far as Katarn was concerned, it didn't matter whether Shepard was responsible or not; the deal with the Alliance was too important to be threatened by this incident, which was insignificant by comparison.

Then again, it was possible that Katarn had testified as to Shepard's innocence as he himself was the guilty party, and by defending the human he also gave himself an alibi. But why kill his own man? That made no sense with the information Shepard had at that moment in time; and in any case, it would be safer to frame Shepard with the guilt and close the case than to give himself a mere alibi and leave the investigation open. No, it was far more likely to be one of the other malcontents. Or another party entirely...

"If you want to know who the culprit was, we're going to need more information. Blind hypotheses will get us nowhere, and blind us to other possibilities with preconceived bias. Show me the corpse."

"The one who found it will take us to it and tell us what they saw," Katarn asserted. "The rest of you will return to your posts." Grudgingly, they complied, until they were left with a batarian who had been left at the back of the crowd, isolated, leaning against the wall almost casually. Thinking back, Shepard had seen him positioned similarly during Katarn's earlier address. He pushed himself into a standing position, then jerked his head towards one of the corridors branching off of the communal room before leading the way.

Rachak had been an irritating, prejudiced and narrow-minded specimen, judging by Shepard's observations of him, so he was disappointed to see that the batarian had been fortunate enough to be given an easy death. A long slash grinned beneath his jaw, opening key blood vessels as well as his airway. Given the lack of any evidence of a struggle, it was a safe assumption that he'd been taken by surprise in the dark, and the cut had been a quick one, leading to an equally swift demise.

Shepard stood over the corpse, memorising details and cataloguing what data he could without interfering with the evidence. Analysing it with the aid of the thermal filters in his hood, he found that the body still held a measurably higher temperature than that of its surroundings, which was significant given the difference between a live batarian's temperature and that of the interior of the base; a corpse would not remain noticeably warm for long. Shepard judged the time of death to be around the middle of the blackout; unless someone had been remarkably fortunate in their timing, the purpose of the event was to facilitate the killing.

The attack had likely been premeditated; instigating a power cut would take some planning in a paramilitary base, even one of this calibre, unless the perpetrator was someone with real talent. Satisfied that he had exhausted the potential use of sight alone, Shepard squatted down by the corpse to begin the next phase of data collection. Rigor mortis had obviously not yet set in; despite the differences between human and batarian anatomy, without modern chemical interference it would take hours for it to begin.

There was nothing on the body that could indicate the identity of the killer, which didn't really mean much. In a strike where the antagonist had the element of surprise, they wouldn't have to be a professional to leave little in the way of evidence. Shepard sighed, frustration flickering across his face beneath the hood before he straightened to regard the victim's commander. "Possible motives?" he asked laconically.

Katarn shook his head, the batarian equivalent of vexation on his face as he looked at the corpse of his subordinate. "Aside from the obvious..." he muttered, just loud enough for Shepard to hear but beyond the range of their sole witness. Shepard understood what he meant: a traitor in their midst. It didn't require much thought to understand the timing, either; Shepard's arrival and the prospect of a deal that armed the dissidents with guns and the Alliance with information posed a clear threat to the Hegemony. The key question, if that was indeed the case, was whether they had already contacted their superiors with news of the human's presence. If so, Shepard might have failed already.

"And you found him _exactly_ like this?" He demanded intently of the other batarian, who had been standing back behind his leader. He looked to Katarn, who nodded at him impatiently, whilst Shepard's face soured beneath his headgear.

_I wonder if they'd be more compliant if I _actually_ started killing them?_

"Yes. I reactivated the base's power and was returning to my post at the long range sensors when I found him here. Then, without touching the corpse, I raised the alarm and made my way to the assembly point." He swallowed, though not without difficulty. "I can see why I'd be a suspect, but I'd never act to jeopardise our chances against the Hegemony. They killed my family." Shepard looked to Katarn for confirmation of the story. He nodded uncertainly.

"You," The human gestured at the more likely suspect "will stay with Katarn, who will keep you out of mischief. We still need more data," he said, now addressing the ex-SIU, who nodded in agreement, although he didn't seem pleased at having his authority usurped by what his culture still invariably viewed as an inferior species, and at best a necessary evil.

They spread out, the two batarians moving together in the opposite direction to Shepard, sweeping the environment for anything that could be used as evidence. Shepard frequently flicked back and forth between infra-red and visible light to ensure he didn't miss anything. Despite his truly meticulous examination of his surroundings, internally, his mind was racing, devising possible scenarios and assessing their likelihood.

Then, one of them gave him pause. It didn't necessarily have to be the case that there was only one culprit, obviously, or that if there was only one they were without allies. There could even be a schism between two rival factions amongst the dissidents; pro and anti human. And right now, he didn't have his eyes on _any _of the batarians, who were spread around the base and potentially unmonitored. He wasn't even watching the two nearest him, and there was nothing to prevent them collaborating, or one of them from killing the other-

And once again, the power to the base died. Shepard swore aloud, now certain that it wasn't a coincidence, and simultaneously drew a Karpov whilst activating the infra-red filters on his recon hood. A shout forestalled a fresh analysis of his surroundings, prompting him instead to rush back towards the two batarians searching the area behind him. He found Katarn alone, scrambling to his feet.

"What happened?" Shepard demanded tersely, covering the apparently blind batarian with his sidearm, just in case.

"We were looking for evidence. As soon as the lights died, he got the jump on me, managed to steal my flashlight before he ran off. He must have had his eyes shut to adjust before it happened, or he would have been at the same disadvantage as me."

"We have a winner." Shepard muttered, just loud enough for Katarn to hear. As far as Shepard could tell, the batarian didn't react in the slightest to his conclusion. "Which way did he go?"

Katarn shook his head. "I didn't see; he couldn't have gotten past you, but there are two routes he still could have taken, and each of them forks quite quickly."

Shepard took a calculated risk, and drew his other Karpov, before switching on its LED flashlight attachment, and pressing it into Katarn's hand. "You take that route," he said, gesticulating, "and I'll follow the other one. See if you can get in touch with your people and get the power back on, then get them looking for him, too. I'd prefer him alive if at all possible, so we can ascertain the extent of the damage he's done." Katarn took the weapon and nodded.

Shepard stood his ground, unwilling to turn his back on the batarian now that he was armed, regardless of the fact that he was the closest thing the N7 had to an ally in this debacle. The ex-SIU seemed no more inclined to trust the human. Shepard was aware that every second that slipped by was another few metres between them and their quarry, their real adversary, or so it appeared.

Exhaling swiftly in frustration, he took a couple of steps back away from the batarian leader, and was somewhat relieved to see him mirror the movement, before turning away to run off along his assigned route. Shepard turned his own back and put a wall between himself and the batarian as quickly as was feasibly possible, before switching his attention to the enemy in front rather than the enemy of an enemy behind.

Karpov held in an unwavering two-handed grip, Shepard sped silently through the base's corridors, ensuring that he made no noise that could either reveal him to his prey or drown out evidence of his quarry's flight.

_There._ A quiet scraping, intermingled with soft, drawn-out thuds, the sort of noise made by an amateur trying to move quickly but quietly. Shepard thought for a moment, then holstered his sidearm, and activated the prototype cloaking device, before moving still faster in an attempt to catch up to the fleeing batarian, and hopefully find out what exactly he was up to, and how much damage he had already done, without having to waste time sorting through the lies an interrogation would drag out of him.

The N7 rounded a corner, and finally caught sight of the batarian, hurrying away from him and glancing behind him at frequent intervals. Shepard's visor vibrated softly by his ear at such a low frequency that no-one out of contact with it would know that it had occurred. It was warning him that his cloaking device was close to overheating its power source, after little more than a minute.

Suppressing the urge to curse aloud, Shepard dropped back behind the corner a mere moment before the device failed, and he re-materialised. The device was impressive, and obviously had a number of possible uses, but ideally it needed tinkering with to improve efficiency. Shepard leaned around the corner ever so slightly, and watched the batarian leave his line of sight, before continuing his silent pursuit.

To their credit, once they'd discovered how quickly the cloaking device would overheat its power source, the technicians working on it rigged it up to one that would cool within a minute, allowing for reasonably frequent use of the device-which was certainly fortunate for Shepard, when the lights came back on. The batarian stopped, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the change in the lighting of the environment, then rushed on, apparently discarding haste entirely, probably with the realisation that all surveillance devices would now be fully functional.

As such, he reached what was apparently his destination within moments of the base's power being restored; his own post, the observation post that held the readouts for the long-range sensors that were intended to provide early warning in the event of the cell's discovery by the Hegemony.

_Now what do you want here?_ Shepard wondered internally, cautiously peering around the corner into the room, forewarned by the fact that all the noises associated with the batarian's flight had ceased. The fugitive was frantically entering commands into a terminal, glancing up occasionally at the screens in front of him. One of them flickered, and brought up the visuals from the base's internal surveillance devices. Instantly, Shepard activated his cloaking device, and took the opportunity to slip into the room and close on his quarry. He was muttering under his breath, in such a low voice that the words, repeated in a mantra, were practically indiscernible.

"-must find the human, must find the human..."

Shepard frowned, lingered in the shadows in a corner whilst he pondered what exactly the batarian wanted with him, before deciding that speculation was pointless and unnecessary when he had access to the alien in order to ask him. He would come to regret his hesitation.

He started to in mere moments, as a matter of fact, when, even as he stepped forward and reached to deactivate his cloak, a gunshot rang out, and the sentient that held his interest had the walls and screens painted with matter that ideally should have remained in his head. The hardware for the terminals was caught by an unfortunate ricochet, resulting in the screens going blank. Whirling to find the source of the shot, Shepard saw one of the other members of the cell holding a pistol, his features contorted with anger. Shepard shifted out of his line of sight before deactivating the cloak, keen to hold on to the advantage the device gave him.

"What the _bloody hell_ do you think you're doing?" He demanded roughly from immediately behind the killer. The batarian spun quickly, startled into raising his weapon. Shepard caught his arm mid-motion, and wrenched it into a painful lock before removing the pistol from the alien's grasp, and striking him across the face with it.

"Katarn instructed that the traitor be stopped from doing any more damage." He stated defiantly, with the strength of conviction. Shepard very nearly killed him there and then, but instead settled for another blow, this time a savage knee to the killer's midriff that left him curled up on the floor, his breathing hoarse.

"And that he be taken _alive_, idiot." The human all but spat. "How else do you suppose we'll find out what he was up to?" Shepard turned away from the dissident and strode across to the fugitive's corpse. There would have been no mystery in how the alien had died, even if Shepard hadn't been there to witness it. However, the creature's death no longer held any interest for the N7; he needed to know what the batarian had been trying to do in the moments preceding it.

The terminals would give no indication, and whilst there were alternatives, he'd need to know exactly what the victim had been accessing to avoid spending hours or possibly even days trawling through the contents of the base's computer network by himself. And he would do it by himself if he had to; Katarn and his people were most definitely to be regarded as untrustworthy. The dead alien's omnitool provided a reasonable place to start, although again Shepard knew he'd prefer to examine its contents in private. He ensured the cameras couldn't see what he was doing with a quick, casual seeming glance before ejecting the microcomputer's chip and pocketing it, before performing a quick general search of the corpse.

It revealed a lump within the batarian's clothing, the cause of which Shepard removed from a concealed inner pocket. He stared at it, partially in disbelief, partially in vexation. And he could now make a pessimistic guess at what he would find in the victim's history, and what the long-range sensors would pick up. What he held changed the nature of the events here, and his task, quite monumentally.

The object he had found was a tracer beacon.


	12. Role Reversal

Role Reversal

Shepard was jerked from his incredulous reverie by Katarn's voice from over the base's intercom, and hastily pocketed his ominous discovery.

"Human-have you found him yet?"

"Found. And killed, with a little unrequested help from one of your subordinates, here." Shepard answered testily, having located and activated the microphone with the aid of the surly batarian he had beaten to the ground mere moments before.

"What? When?"

"A couple of minutes ago. Why?"

"We've found another body."

_Two murderers? Not as likely as the original suspect being innocent, given his behaviour in his final moments... But really, this is just a distraction from the main issue... and was probably designed to be. In which case, quite a few things start to fit together rather better._

"Where?"

"The internal surveillance hub. The killer shut the system down."

"Can you fix it?"

"Not without replacing the entire damn thing. It's been shot. Did you find anything helpful on the body? Anything to tell you what he was after?"

"No. Your man destroyed the terminal he was working on, and his omnitool, and there was nothing useful on the body. Wait there; I'm on my way." Shepard said, before releasing the button and gesturing to the dissident behind him to lead the way, and following him through the network of corridors, taking care to move silently. At first, the batarian would turn every so often in order to reassure himself that he wasn't alone, but eventually stopped. At that point, so did Shepard, backtracking around the nearest corner before examining the contents of the omnitool chip he had liberated from the corpse with his own microcomputer.

The victim's history did indeed include the readings from the long range sensors, as well as the images from the internal surveillance network. Shepard loaded up the schematics from the batarian's omnitool and copied them across to his own microcomputer, before locating and moving to the nearest terminal that was linked into the network; for obvious reasons, one couldn't gain access to the sensor array via one's omnitool. Shepard hacked the terminal with the batarian's account, which had yet to have its access revoked, and a programme from his own device, and hurriedly brought up both the internal surveillance readouts and the data from the base's early warning system.

Fortunately for him, Katarn had indeed been telling the truth when he said that the base's internal surveillance had been sabotaged; now his disappearance could be passed off as little more than a misdemeanour, when he re-established contact. The readings from the long range sensors were unsurprising, but still highly unfortunate.

A task force of vessels giving readings consistent with ships belonging to the Hegemony's naval forces were in orbit around the planet, and in the process of deploying ground-attack vehicles, as well as troop transports.

The cell's days of resistance were numbered in hours, not days. And Shepard was caught right in the middle of them, along with an Alliance issue stealth shuttle and a shipment of weaponry.

This called for some fairly drastic action. Large scale evacuation was impossible; there wasn't enough time, not enough room in the shuttle for all of the dissidents and Shepard couldn't leave any behind to be questioned. He rather doubted that the batarians would co-operate once he started executing those who had to be left behind. Furthermore, there were still an unknown number of traitors within their midst, one being the minimum.

Resistance was implausible looking at the forces the Hegemony was throwing at them; this was a blitzkrieg, not a force set up for a long siege. Nothing particularly anomalous in that, but Thaddaeus had an uncomfortable feeling that they already knew he was here; they just needed the evidence.

Which made it all the more crucial that he not leave any behind. There was a thermonuclear eraser in the shuttle as a very last resort; however, it would destroy his means of escape if detonated and was set to go off if tampered with. Besides which, nukes were rather expensive, and although Shepard's division had a rather impressive budget, Hogan would most certainly be appreciative, particularly when one considered the disastrous course this operation had taken, if the assassin could salvage as much as possible from the debacle.

Which left the option that quite frankly required the most effort, posed the greatest risk, and also promised to be the most interesting. For all that he had once wished for a quiet life away from people, Shepard had had his fill of such an existence when enjoying Henry Lawson's hospitality-now, he craved the challenge of the contest, and the thrill of the victory, more than anything else.

The irony tugged his lips into a smirk. The detective's investigation had unearthed facts that drove him to join the perpetrator of the crimes in serial murder, albeit with somewhat different motivations. The traitor was working to turn the dissidents' gaze inward, at the same time as softening them up so that their allies would be able to capture rather than kill their foes. Shepard's strategy amounted to a scorched-earth policy, although he did share one interest with his erstwhile quarry; he couldn't afford to let them know about the batarian fleet. Even the most experienced of hunters can be caught by a stampede.

Shepard closed the personnel list he had located and hacked, an oddly imprudent addition to a set of files belonging to a group of insurrectionists, and drew one of his knives from within his coat and headed back towards the rendezvous, for which he was already late. Back towards the cattle he intended to slaughter over the course of the next few minutes, albeit with a great deal of care. A noise alerted him to someone else moving ahead of him, on a converging vector. It was his guide, snarling under his breath about 'the attention span of bi-optic so-called sentients'. Had Shepard not been intending to end his existence in mere moments, he might have found it mildly offensive. As it was, not even using the tactical cloak, aware that he might need it for a more complex situation within a moment's notice, he concealed himself and allowed the batarian to pass him, before sliding out of the shadows to place his knife at the alien's throat.

"You were saying...?" He hissed softly in the dissident's ear, taking a certain malicious pleasure from the way the batarian swallowed tensely and tried to prevent his trembling skin from meeting with the cruel edge of the N7's blade.

"V-very funny, human. Now let me go." The alien uttered quietly, fear obvious in his voice.

"Would that I could, friend," Shepard replied, with vast and obvious insincerity, "would that I could," before, with a practiced, delicate stroke, he rent the batarian's flesh, simultaneously exposing artery, vein and windpipe in one fell swoop, and twisting around before allowing his erstwhile ally to topple forwards into the shadow from which he had struck with a quiet gurgle and expire before him.

* * *

"Where the hell have you been? And where's my guide?" Katarn demanded as Shepard appeared around the corner and advanced into the room before them.

"Continuing my line of investigation. Your guide was _very_ forthcoming with some absolutely _fascinating_ information, once I deduced the best way to persuade him." Shepard replied urbanely, his fingers drumming out a quiet pattern against the Karpov on his thigh.

Katarn's cohorts tensed up, those who were armed drawing their weapons, though they lacked the resolve to raise them. "Where is he?" Their leader demanded, his voice noticeably harsher and more hostile, understandably-but he was also acting exactly as Shepard required of him.

"You haven't been entirely truthful, have you, Katarn Dal'rho? Not with me, not even with your men. But then, you have loyalties that preclude such courtesies, don't you? And it was such a little lie of addition..."

"What are you talking about?" The batarian demanded, a very definite edge to his voice. His men's behaviour reflected his tone, although their glances towards their leader were very nearly as wary as those they directed at the human before them. Said human did nothing to defuse the tension by drawing his own weapon, and continuing.

"I'm talking about your claim to be ex-SIU. Its veracity is suspect when you and your late accomplice start murdering your own people to sabotage a deal between the Alliance and dissidents. You were going to frame me, eventually, weren't you? And it would be so much more credible from a human sympathiser, wouldn't it? Word would doubtless spread that the Hegemony's propaganda wasn't quite so dishonest after all. You might even get some new recruits..."

"You lie!" Katarn snarled, snatching a pistol from one of his subordinates and aiming it at the human, before pausing when he found himself on the wrong end of a dozen gun barrels, eleven of whom belonged to his subordinates.

"The human's tale is not as absurd as I would like." One of them said. "Is it true?"

It had all, of course, been a bluff, designed to sow further discord and dissention amongst Shepard's prey and ripen them for the slaughter. The fact that the scenario was one of the most plausible ones (aside from the alien's scheme, which failed to include the incoming task force) only made it more convincing, and the ploy more likely to succeed.

So Shepard was very nearly as surprised, and certainly significantly more pleased, as his temporary allies when Katarn flung aside all pretence of pacifism towards any of them and opened fire. The drawback was that he was firing at the human, as the greatest threat.

The batarian's aim was good, and even if he was limited to a cheap, basic heavy pistol which was neutralised with relative ease by Shepard's shields, it still staggered him and slowed his retaliation, by which time the ersatz dissident had turned his malice on his own followers. He shot the malcontent from whom he stole his pistol in the foot, preventing his flight, before yanking him into the trajectory of the rounds sent at him by his vengeful erstwhile subordinates, using the seconds it bought him to force Shepard to dive away from further shots, then bring up his omnitool and use it to cut the base's power.

_He must have had it rigged into the base's network when it was built._ Shepard thought disgustedly as he adjusted his recon hood to infra-red; he was fighting on what was far from neutral terrain, which put him at a definite disadvantage. He caught a glimpse of Katarn's flight and was immediately faced with a quandary: chase the SIU down and kill him now, and risk the Hegemony capturing some of the malcontents, or deal with them first and afford the batarian a dangerous lead.

With a snarl of frustration, Shepard opted for the latter, and, having restored his pistol to its place on his thigh, drew a pair of knives from their places up his coat sleeves, strapped to his forearms. He whirled, and slashed two batarian throats simultaneously, sending blood flicking across the room from the tips of his blades, further adding to the batarian's fear and confusion alongside the gurgling sound of two of their allies coming to an ignominious end.

"Someone get the bloody lights on!" The human demanded, knowing that he'd require power if he was to retrieve the dissidents' data and track down their traitorous commander. Furthermore, it added to the confusion, which, from his perspective at least, was all to the good.

In the short term, a few batarians utilised their paltry wits and activated the LED flashlights on their weapons. That was as far as rational thought took them, however, and they were promptly directing the beams erratically in every direction, trying to find their assailant, and instead producing a dazzling strobe effect, reflecting off of the palely iridescent ice from which the base was carved. It blinded those who remained-with the exception of Shepard, which really only made his gory task easier, and more easily justified; with a few notable exceptions, these dissidents really were hopeless. They had encountered a top predator, and were not equipped to survive.

One by one, two by two, the flickering beams of light steadied as the hands that directed them fell, or cut out entirely. A pair of aliens with some sense of prudence and a capacity for rational thought fled once they could see the room ever so slightly-and the whirling, writhing shadows that it contained-moving to restore power to the base and, so they thought, enable the human to end the fratricide. In a rather lateral sense, they were right. The killing of their comrades did come to an end, shortly after they had achieved their goal, when what remained of them, blinking in the suddenly uniform illumination, saw their dead fellows, and the human standing over them, exchanging a pair of bloody, gore-smeared knives for his pistols.

Shepard then hurried to meet the duo on their return and thank them for their efforts on his behalf, quite literally, as a matter of fact, before he shot them. He checked the readout on his omnitool that he'd connected to the base's sensor array, and saw that, as expected, the batarians had prudently dropped their forces out of range of the base's anti-air defences, and were now rapidly making their way towards the base, with unerring accuracy despite the disruptive weather conditions.

His next act took longer than he would have liked, but he set in motion a full wipe of the base's computers (including the software for the base's defences, which ought to have the Hegemony mopping up anything he'd missed for him in collateral damage), having extracted the data that had been offered as part of the agreement as well as data that matched some fairly broad search parameters, just in case Katarn had been holding back.

Moments before the wipe destroyed the programme, Shepard was notified of the usage of one of the base's exits.

_Katarn..._


	13. Vastatio Terrarium

Vastatio Terrarium

Katarn was caught somewhere between reeling in furious disbelief, and cackling in triumph, as he forged through the howling blizzard towards his fast approaching comrades. The human had seemed to act as he'd predicted at first, but it was now gravely apparent that he'd underestimated this 'Thanatos'. The purpose of the exercise had been twofold from the moment of the idea's inception; discredit the Human Alliance in the eyes of the Citadel Council, and deal with, making an example of in the doing, some of the boldest malcontents amongst his race. As such, he'd begun making sounds of discontent amongst the SIU, before having to take his leave abruptly when his superiors purposely set those colleagues unaware of the scheme upon him, granting him the perfect backdrop to become a rallying point for the resistance.

The fools had made themselves known to him within a pitifully short time once he put out feelers to try and find the resistance. To begin with, much of what he did was intended to strengthen, expand and organise the resistance, although not so much that they would become difficult for the Hegemony's might to deal with. In the long term, it was a move not only to further establish his credentials as a key figure in the movement of malcontents, but to draw together as many likeminded individuals as possible before the jaws of the trap bit into those within its reach.

After almost a year, the time became ripe to deal with the next phase; connecting with the Alliance. It was done through some of Katarn's contacts in the Terminus Systems, batarian privateers with as fierce a loyalty to their species and their government as they had to themselves-and, fortunately, wit to match. Information-_genuine_ information, Katarn thought sourly (it was one of the things that soured the elation of victory, but there had been no way the plan could have succeeded without it) had been the bait, the demand for munitions to prevent suspicion; apparently it was a human saying that good things always had their price, or something to that effect.

The humans were so eager to carry out the transaction, perceiving it to be a double victory for their species, that Katarn might have found it amusing, if the injustices that afflicted his species had not long since erased his sense of humour. The rendezvous had been proposed and agreed, the human had arrived and the SIU agent had activated the beacon to call in the coup de gras, before murdering Dal'resah to turn the base's attention inward, onto one another in fear and suspicion.

Of course, that was the point at which a perfect operation derailed spectacularly.

Katarn had assumed that one of the main criteria for Thanatos' selection for the operation was the fact that he was amenable to working with batarians, as it was a rare enough trait amongst a species that loathed his kin almost as much as they did them. He certainly hadn't anticipated the human taking control of the investigation with unopposable poise, or one of his so carefully cultivated malcontents turning on him the moment he killed the base's power again, even managing to escape the infiltrator with the tracer beacon.

Katarn had needed the human out of the way whilst he rectified the situation and plotted his next move, so he'd sent the human off in the opposite direction to the problem. Or so he'd thought; he'd been forced to send his one ally, his contingency plan, to ensure that Thanatos would learn nothing from his quarry, to ensure that no suspicion fell on him, whilst he murdered another of his subordinates. The investigation had to continue until the Hegemony's forces arrived, and had to be pulled away from a corpse that held the potential to reveal that threat. The risk put the Lieutenant on edge, but there had been no realistic alternative.

Only, his comrade had failed. Thanatos had somehow learned _everything_-not just the scheme he'd relayed to turn Katarn's only men against him, judging by the noises that followed Katarn as he fled, but the real plot, the one involving the fleet that was even now deploying troops on the ground to strike the final blow that would humiliate humanity and grant the batarian species its vengeance.

And yet, the batarian felt sure, the human's actions had been insufficient. Only one piece of irrefutable evidence had to reach his superiors and it would be too late. Besides, if the human had any sense, he'd be making good his escape now, before the Hegemony reduced his chances to nil.

* * *

Shepard stepped out into the icy maelstrom of air and broke into a run, the elements wrenching at the trenchcoat he wore and impeding his progress. Fortunately, his destination was not far.

* * *

Another scream rose up over the wind's dirge. An engine's whine. Katarn actually howled in triumph, his guttural voice lost in the tumultuous weather, and the rapidly approaching mechanical shriek that spelled victory...

Just not for him, he realised, as a shuttle materialised out of the white, emblazoned with the colours of the Systems Alliance, and, in spite of the natural interference, turned smoothly and touched down directly in front of him. Sidearm raised defiantly, consumed with wrath at the prospect of failure at this point, so close to his goal, Katarn advanced on the shuttle, even as the door opened, revealing the figure of Thanatos framed against the opening. Katarn opened fire without hesitation, sending round after round hurtling vengefully towards the lone human, even after he had retreated out of the batarian's line of sight.

Even consumed with rage as he was, the SIU was no fool: to enter that shuttle would be death. What's more, it would be unnecessary; Thanatos could flee and it wouldn't change the fact that the Hegemony would have the evidence they needed, or he could wait and be taken, or he could attempt a sortie and die. There were no other options, and all of them were in Katarn's favour. He had the metaphorical strategic high-ground, and he would hold it.

Except there was a blade at his throat.

The air to his right shimmered in his peripheral vision, and resolved into the form of the human, Thanatos. He wasn't wearing his mask anymore, however, and Katarn recognised that scarred, smirking visage. The Butcher himself.

"_You!_"

"Me." Shepard agreed, openly amused.

"You'll _pay_ for this, for _everything_ you've done to my species. The torment will be loud and long, and not even when you beg for death will your suffering be curtailed-"

"Why does everyone assume that I've got it in for your benighted species? It's nothing _personal,_ you know. I'm just acting in my best interests, and it so happens that they clash with yours."

"Torfan. Elysium. Now here. You've made it personal, Butcher."

"May I remind you that these little encounters have always been set in motion by the actions of your own people? Really, you overestimate your significance. If you stopped dipping your fingers into galactic affairs, my colleagues and I would be only too happy to stop slicing them off."

A wild thought seized Katarn, one last hope, one final stratagem that could bring victory in spite of everything, a triumph undreamt of even in the conceptual stages of the operation. If he could just keep the human talking until his comrades arrived...

"Easy for humanity to say! You've been favoured from the start! You shoulder your way into galactic society, gain an embassy on the Citadel _only eight years _after a first contact with the turians that was _hostile_, and have the gall to say _we_ intrude?"

"You have everything to learn of Darwin, it seems. I've only got time for a quick introduction, but it goes something like this-"

Thaddaeus flicked his wrist in a motion that sent the knife at Katarn's throat on a collision course with several key blood vessels, as well as his airway. Katarn reacted with impressive speed, however, and bent back away from the scything steel, allowing nothing more than a shallow, superficial gash, and brought his gun around to aim for his species' nemesis as he did so. Shepard reversed the slashing motion to block that arm, and raised the Karpov he held in his left as a contingency measure, pulling the trigger twice in rapid succession.

Katarn fell, by his own volition, gravity carrying him away from the trajectory of the assassin's projectiles and down into the snow's cryogenic embrace. He lashed out at the Butcher's legs, hoping to bring him down too, but the blanket of crystals impeded his movements, and the human leapt nimbly over the assault, avoiding it with ease and turning the leap into a movement that would carry his feet to the batarian's throat. The SIU desperately continued the motion he'd begun with his kick, twisting aside just enough to escape that danger and instead receiving an armoured boot to the skull as a concussive reward for his trouble.

However, Shepard's leap had brought his legs into range of Katarn's upper limbs, which he deployed in a similar but rather more effective manner, bringing the human down alongside him. Neither of them was inclined to tussle on the ground, however, and both scrambled to their respective feet. Now, Katarn was between Shepard and his shuttle.

Katarn bared his teeth in a sadistic snarl, enjoying his chance to get the better of his infamous opponent. Shepard remained impassive. Then, with the subtle flick of a switch, the air around him seemed to crystallise, leaving an empty patch of air in its wake.

This time, it wasn't the edge of a blade he felt, but the muzzle of a gun. And Shepard didn't reappear, he simply hissed in the SIU's ear

"_This _is Darwin. We adapt, we die, and the winner gets to live. There's no morality to it."

One detonation. Katarn's body, sans a large proportion of the matter previously constituent in his skull, slumped into Shepard's arms, and was unceremoniously tossed into the shuttle for later examination.

In the distance, the discordant howl of multiple vehicles joined with the wind's fierce keening. It was time to depart. The lone shuttle lifted off, and flew low, fleeing before the advance of those who needed only to detect it to inflict defeat, before bearing the human and his prizes off-planet.

* * *

"...Whilst the mission's outcome was not the one initially desired, it is my considered opinion that it could appropriately labelled as a victory. Admittedly, we severely weakened the batarian resistance movement, and lost the prospect of an ongoing stream of data from Hegemony space, but considering the ease with which the SIU were able to infiltrate it at the highest levels and twist it towards their agenda, it could be argued that that's no bad thing. I was also able to bring with me the munitions intended for the resistance, and all files that could potentially be useful from the resistance's mainframe, whilst leaving no trace of my presence and denying the SIU their opportunity to discredit the Alliance."

Shepard had relayed the facts surrounding the reason for the mission's... _unexpected_ outcome with casual ease, concentrating more on Hogan's reaction, which appeared limited, to put it mildly. The Major was clearly out of sorts, and, as his superior, that concerned Shepard. Well, in so far as that it had the potential to adversely affect him.

"You did well." The Irishman finally said, his voice sour, almost surly. "You salvaged a mission that could have ended in disaster, and returned to us having secured a strategic profit."

"Whilst I can't say I was delighted to have been sent in with deficient intelligence, the scheme was well put together. The SIU isn't an organisation of fools." Shepard said, guessing the older man's error was at least one reason for his foul mood.

"Quite. You remember Kai Leng?" Hogan said, changing the subject abruptly.

"My memory is fully functional." Thaddaeus replied, attempting to avoid sounding testy.

His superior sighed. "It appears that your assessment of him was more accurate than mine." Shepard quirked an eyebrow, but prudently managed to restrain himself from commenting 'you don't say' aloud; Hogan was still his superior, and in a position of power over the N7. In any case, his expression said it for him.

"He attacked and murdered a krogan on his first assignment, a fairly routine operation, and hospitalised his mentor when they tried to restrain him. He was subsequently captured and detained, and has been sentenced to twenty years imprisonment in a high-security facility. The incident has been too well publicised for us to extract him, were we so inclined, and for the sake of deniability records have been altered to indicate that he was on leave."

A not entirely comfortable silence ensued. Neither man was interested in commiserations, likewise rebukes were unnecessary; Hogan had been at fault and he knew it. There was little more to be said on the matter, once one had excluded these options. After a minute, Hogan opened a compartment on his desk, and reached in to withdraw a pair of tumblers and the crystal decanter of Cointreau. The two professionals decided that they were content to drink in silence.


	14. Moderation

A/N: My apologies for the wait, but, as I warned you, life is busy. And, I must admit, I've been writing ahead in the timeline a bit. Although, in my defence, that will result in quicker updates later on. As ever, reviews are appreciated. Obviously. I mean, why would I put this stuff on the internet if I wasn't even remotely curious about what people thought of it? Anyway...

* * *

Moderation

The jungle was stifling; the tangled weave of plants trapped the humid air and smothered Shepard where he lay. He was decidedly frustrated by the nature of this assignment. Everything, from its location to its requirements, was infuriating. This planet, for instance, defied logic, as it was apparently covered in vegetation of a similar nature in a very similar climate from pole to pole. Pragia could very well have come from a piece of science fiction before people understood how planets _worked_; and yet, here it was.

What's more, he'd had to march through mile after mile of that confining environment just to reach the location from which he was to observe the compound in which the target resided, which, considering the highly lethal nature of the local fauna, had hardly been an enjoyable experience. And then, there was the maddeningly complicated, albeit necessary, nature of how the assassination had to be carried out. The only thing Shepard didn't dislike about the job was the nature of the target. He had absolutely nothing against killing the zealot leader of a militant cult; quite the opposite...

The compound was large, for a supposedly temporary haven, although Intel had informed him that the cult had been operating out of this area for at least as long as he'd been part of the division; rapidly approaching five years. What's more, for an organisation filled with people with a loose grasp on reality, they'd managed to make the place impressively secure. In the middle of nowhere, on a planet light years from civilisation that seemed to have nothing else of any significance on it. Granted, they were surrounded by vicious, invasive flora and fauna that were supposed to mask any readings given off by the base, and his own presence indicated that their paranoia wasn't entirely unjustified, but, ironically, everything they had to fear was a result of that very attitude.

The security systems, aside from the anti-air defences, were low tech, presumably due to lack of funds and the hostile environment that would rapidly wear down any equipment's resilience, but electrified fences and a constant system of patrolling guards in the midst of constantly frenzied activity on the part of the cultists, made the prospect of infiltrating the compound whilst remaining undetected a daunting one. And, regrettably, that was exactly what this particular assignment required of him.

Therefore, Shepard was lying in a rudimentary hide, surveying the area through ELE's scope, and had been doing so on shifts of 24 hours of observation to 6 hours of sleep for five cycles now. The process was excruciating. Willpower supplemented with stimulants allowed him to maintain his concentration, recording patterns and other observations on an archaic piece of paper; the glow from a datapad or an omnitool could easily give his position away to those in residence within the compound, which was as nothing compared to the risk of attracting the attention of some of the more unfriendly indigenous wildlife.

The cultists were preparing for war. Shepard didn't know the details; didn't care to, but their leader professed to have had an apocalyptic vision of the future unless the infidel was purged from the galaxy. The activity that took place almost twenty-four hours a day involved weapons training, religious services in the open air, and constant maintenance of the compound's infrastructure. Oh, and the obligatory shaving and tattooing of the occasional newcomer.

None of this really explained why Hogan and his superiors wanted the cultists' leader alone dead, however. It would be a simple enough matter to drop an incendiary bomb on the compound, without any real precision required, and watch it quite literally go up in smoke. The AA defences complicated matters, but only slightly; the Alliance had plenty of pilots with the skills to manage the operation at a reasonable level of risk.

No; the reason Thaddaeus Shepard had been sent to kill the leader of the cult, Benjamin Cohen, in a manner that had to look accidental no less, was that even taking into account their defective reasoning skills, some of these cultists were valuable. Some of them were biotics; some of the most powerful humanity had to offer. The Alliance felt that their energies would be better devoted to a more secular cause, which would require a change in dogma that would make the lunatics more moderate-less opposed to everyone in that they should be more inclined to align themselves with their own species against the other members of the galactic community. Needless to say, this required a change in leadership, a coup d'état, which was what Shepard was there to facilitate, without martyring the man.

One more cycle to collate enough data for his predictive model to be sufficiently accurate, and he'd be going in. Sweat trickled along with the pull of gravity and gradually pooled in low areas beneath his armour, saturating his clothing and being absorbed into his skin due to the unfortunate influence of keratin.

Just one more round of 24 hours of ceaseless focus and another six of fitful, restless attempts to sleep. Just thirty hours until the storm arrived. Just. It was all relative, though...

* * *

Hans Reiser had been living in a state of constant terror even before he had contacted the Systems Alliance to arrange the removal of his immediate superior. That fear, as much as ambition, was what had driven him. Neither he nor his master were religious men, true believers, not really. What had drawn them to creating a violent cult was the prospect of gaining people's loyalty and allegiances to an unquestioning degree.

At least, that was how it had once been. Until his fellow biotic had encountered the narcotic colloquially known as 'Red Sand', and begun to actually _believe_ the absurdities that they babbled to keep their followers behind them on the warpath. His next move was to abandon the recruitment of their usual mentally deficient cast-offs from less extreme organisations, and begin recruiting people of a far more dangerous calibre. _Frightening_ people. And worst of all was the girl. The psychopath. Still in her teens, her small body was already hard muscle and lean sinew, and as of her recruitment, was almost completely covered with tattoos. Benjamin called her Subject Zero. Everyone else, or at least those who didn't want to find themselves prematurely atomised in a warp field, either called her 'Jack', or 'Ma'am'.

The final straw, constructed from singularities as it was, was when Cohen had finally revealed his plot to his subordinates. They were going to attack the Alliance, and wrest from them authority over an entire species. The idea, so far flung from Reiser's more modest visions of coming to dominate the Terminus Systems, and challenging Aria T'Loak, was one that he would once have considered impossible. Now, having seen what Jack could do, he wasn't so sure. This didn't make the idea any less insane, however, and it had come to the point where the possibility of success had terrified Hans more than the prospect of failure.

That was when he had realised that Benjamin had to die. Then, he would be able to carefully steer his flock of rabid, telekinetic sheep away from the path to destruction and onto a more moderate one. He knew, however, that he wouldn't be able to do it alone. And so, he contacted the Systems Alliance, and found them all to accommodating. Assistance would be inbound shortly, he was told. Conform until the deed is done. It didn't prevent the perspiration that broke out all over his body every time he found himself within eyeshot of his old friend's newest favourite.

Something nudged at his leg, startling him into summoning a reflexive blue aura, suppressed just as quickly when he looked down to see one of the infants that lived in the compound, due to the cultists lacking the wherewithal to use contraception. The child stared up at him with a troubled gaze, and pointed up at the horizon, where clouds that seemed to blot out all light roiled and churned as they advanced inexorably onward.

"Storm?" The little boy asked haltingly, still not fully capable of fluent speech. Doing his best to remain calmly aloof, Hans nodded as he stared off into the distance.

"Death is on the wind." He announced, finding it appropriate in an uncomfortably large number of ways. The key question was 'For whom?'...

* * *

It was a dark and stormy night. The rain came down in torrents, and there were predators, both sentient and otherwise, in the wilderness. It was a dark night, that is, in the gaps between the constantly strobing flashes of lightning, that managed to light the miserable jungle for kilometres, as effectively as the nuclear fusion that took place in Pragia's local star. Fortunately for the assassin lurking within eyeshot, this in fact reduced visibility due to the mixture of reflection and refraction caused by the sheets of tumultuous precipitation that blanketed the area for miles around, as of course the obstinate cultists on guard duty refused to abandon their redundant posts to shelter from the elements.

In the meantime, Shepard was watching lightning bolts. Obviously, as something truly random there was no pattern to be relied upon, regardless of whether his brain believed there to be one. However, with the distance readouts on his visor and a mental count from the flash of static to the roar of thunder, he was able to accurately predict when the noise would reach him. This would, of course, be the perfect time to cover ELE's own not inconsiderable retort.

His target was the heat source that indicated the position of the compound's primary generator. Knocking it out would provide him a narrow window of a few minutes with which to circumvent the area's automated security, before the backup could be brought online. Of course, it wouldn't be sufficient to fire under the cover of thunder; there were a few amongst the cult's upper echelons that would realise that something was wrong if the device was all but destroyed for no apparent reason. No, he would have to wait for a bolt to strike directly over the compound, and then time his shot perfectly in the fragments of a second that followed so that the noise he caused would be indiscernible from that of the storm.

Fortunately, the compound being an island of metal on an organic world, Thaddaeus didn't have to wait for long.

The flash blinded him temporarily, but he had already accounted for that eventuality; his rifle was already lined up and secured into position for the shot. All he had to do was pull the trigger at the appropriate moment.

He did.

Across the compound, lights went out, and the various automated security measured went offline. Yet no alarm was raised, no outcry. Shepard, blinking away the spots in his vision, winced as he finally arose from his hide for the first time in approximately a week, and as swiftly and silently as his skills and surroundings permitted, made his way towards the compound.

Within the main structure, Reiser looked up from his administrative work as the power died, and clamped down swiftly on the paranoia that reared its ugly head within his mind. A flickering blue radiance materialised and steadied, as on the other side of the room, Jack casually continued to tinker with her shotgun under the illumination provided by the blaze of her biotic might.

Suppressing a shudder, Hans recalled his earlier words, and fervently hoped that death would come soon, regardless of whom it chose.

His prayer was answered. Thanatos had arrived.


	15. Caution

A/N: No, I'm not dead yet. It has been quite a while, I know, and this is quite a meagre offering for such a pause, but life has been complex of late and has pulled my focus away from this project. Don't worry, I write when I have time. It's simply infrequent.

* * *

Caution

Shepard dropped from the formerly electrified fence, his lightweight armour scratched by the barbed wire at its peak, and landed with a near silent roll on the cracked, mud smeared concrete upon which the compound had been built. Behind him, the inevitable signs in the earth that told of his passing were already being erased by the hammering precipitation. Without hesitation, he moved right, into the shadow of the nearest structure, following the wall to its end before leaving it behind to stalk further into the base, practically certain that no-one was within twenty metres of him. Naturally, he had a silenced variant of his usual Karpov in hand, a contingency plan in the event he was wrong. He didn't need it.

The storm, however, had been later than was forecasted, and the cultists would doubtless adhere to their timetable like good little minions, selfless slaves to their indoctrinators. The window of opportunity to avoid them was narrowing, that of an imminent successful assassination narrower still. Too narrow. It would have to wait.

That decided, Shepard abruptly changed course, on a vector that led him out of the open, into an even more heavily shaded gap between two of the bunker-like structures. His timing was fortuitous – moments later, the backup generator was brought online, and the compound was suddenly bathed in harsh artificial light, a harbinger of the soon to be emerging cultists.

The assassin quickened his pace until he came to one end of a network of external piping, channelling the rainforest's precipitation into massive tankers for the cultists' use, and carefully scaled the structure via with the help of the metal tubes, careful both of the noise he caused and the integrity of the poorly constructed guttering, which could quite possibly fall away beneath his weight. Still breathing lightly, he hauled himself up onto the slanted roof and ran for the ventilation outlets. The entrances were guarded by swiftly rotating fans that would make swift work at minimum bisecting him, regardless of his armour.

However, constant exposure to Pragia's hostile environment and the continuing onslaught of the elements had facilitated his circumvention of this difficulty; the fan's fixing had become warped and corroded, making two shots from the Karpov sufficient to render the rotating blades non-functional. Thence, Shepard carefully unscrewed the bolts that attached the outermost grid, the final obstacle to his entry, and eased his way into the confined space, making a painstaking effort to avoid making any noise that could be detected by human ears.

Before him was a drop well over a dozen metres in magnitude. Realising he would be unlikely to be able to retrace his steps and remove signs of his passing, he replaced the grating behind him, sealing himself in, and moved out into the narrow abyss, limbs braced against the confines of the shaft to keep him from falling, his face soon contorted into a pained grimace at the effort, muscles trembling as he slowly allowed gravity to take effect. It took little more than a minute, but by the time Thaddaeus had made the bottom, he could feel the surface of his skin prickling under the ionising influence of his subconscious biotics. Fortunately, the only source of visible light seemed to be directly above him, which made it unlikely that anyone passing a ventilation duct would notice anything that could lead to his detection.

The assassin waited for the dangerous sensation to fade, in the meantime considering his next moves. The optimal window for the assassination had all but passed, and wouldn't reappear for several days, during each of which he would have to evade detection, which would require almost constant movement – even his present location wouldn't be perfectly safe for the duration. That movement, evading the pattern of the timetable the cultists followed with diamond rigidity, would leave marks, and the longer it endured, the greater the probability he would be unable to adequately cover his tracks. Weighing that risk against the risk of detection in a less than optimal assassination scenario, he concluded that the former outweighed the latter, though not by a particularly great margin.

Fortunately, he had already formulated strategies for the top five moments of opportunity over the course of his observation of the compound, and ranked them according to probability of complete success, taking into account the requirement to avoid causing a martyrdom. The second was thirty hours away, and balanced the likelihood of exposure before the kill or during, or leaving signs that would end in the same result. The third was sooner still, but the probability of success was too slight.

His weapons? Aside from his usual precautionary arsenal, the agents he intended to employ in the assassination itself were, depending on the scenario, gravity, electricity, and toxicity. He was disinclined towards gravity; too messy, for one, lacking in subtlety and requiring him to be on the scene at the very moment of death, which, cloaking device or no, had associated with it a serious risk of discovery or at minimum an irrational suspicion – if nothing else, it seemed too_ obvious_, too likely to cause conspiracy theories amongst the herd he was attempting to manipulate.

No, something more mundane would be preferable. A toxic agent from Pragia's hostile tropical wilderness was workable, even readily available, as he'd collected numerous samples whilst inbound, and delivery would be a relatively simple matter, yet having observed the cultists it now seemed likely that this would arouse suspicion; at least one member of the cult's upper echelons had the sense to have their people decontaminating the compound on an essentially constant basis to avoid such a contingency.

Electrocution, however, whilst ostensibly seeming plausible and the most likely to avoid arousing suspicion in principle given the preceding storm that damaged the compound's main power generator, also represented one of the most difficult, and worse, unreliable methods of assassination available to him; there was a reason it had never been a part of Shepard's repertoire.

Shepard settled on the toxin; whilst the system the cultists set up to prevent contamination was surprisingly formidable, it was not impossible to circumnavigate. There was a meaningfully large probability that one of Pragia's smaller indigenous creatures could replicate a skilled assassin's feat.

The next question was how to administer the toxin. Obviously, any delivery system would have to emulate nature's method, meaning it was dependant on the choice of toxin itself, which, Shepard realised, would have to be chosen on the basis of how it was delivered to ensure a lack of suspicion as well as success.

The two indigenous species that could most conceivably infiltrate Cohen's compound and cause his death were an arachnoid creature and a serpentine being. Both were capable of bypassing the low tech conventional security measures and administering a lethal dose of a toxic substance. Both could conceivably wish to enter the building to escape the deluge. But the reptoid creature by its very nature was far more sedate and significantly less aggressive: eyebrows could well be raised if Cohen were found dead with such a creature's venom in his veins, whilst its source was nowhere to be found.

Thus, Thaddaeus settled on the venom of the arthropod. Ironically, this was also the option that required equipment no more specialised than a medical syringe, although this had not been a part of his selection criteria.

A glance at the chronometer on his wrist persuaded him that the time had come to move to another location; whilst there was time before he would likely be discovered where he was, moving silently in the confined environment of the air ducts would take time that had to be factored in. He eased himself forwards through the vents towards an area of the compound that would be sparsely occupied, flitting between the calm certainty of necessity and impatience, less with his current situation than with the scenario in its entirety. He cursed mentally as his armour scraped against the interior of the vent, causing a noise that whilst quiet, could easily travel at such a low frequency. Then he heard a near perfect replica of the noise.

Only this time, he hadn't been moving.

Likely explanation: he wasn't alone in the vent. Shepard froze, and carefully brought his hand into position to activate his cloak, whilst trying to assess the location of the source of the noise. Then it came again, and he noticed a pattern, a slight increase both in pitch and volume, that concerned him far more than the question of whether he was moving towards it or not.

That pattern meant that the source of the noise was moving towards _him_. Shepard's free hand loosened the silenced Karpov in its holster in preparation for a fast and silent draw: whether a cultist deviating from their schedule or a specimen of indigenous wildlife, Thaddaeus knew that his presence would cause alarm if they became aware of it and were given the opportunity to react.

The noise steadily grew louder, until it was close enough for Shepard to realise the location of the source: _behind_ him. A direction in which he was entirely unable to see. Shepard activated the cloak, wincing at the polarising effect that temporarily emitted light, before continuing on his way, intending to find a place with room in which to turn around and deal with the unknown party. Even if he were so inclined, there was no room for mercy now that it was apparent that they could already have detected his presence. A junction loomed out of the monochrome gloom, affording just enough room for Shepard to successfully reorient himself towards his adversary, who was continuing to follow his course, a peculiar choice if they were aware of another entity's presence, but the assassin was more than willing to believe such a level of stupidity from a member of any religion, let alone a cult.

The cloak endured as the other entity grew closer, untaxed as it was by an inert user without shields to further strain the power source and cause it to overheat. Shepard finally picked up the shape rounding the corner through the infrared filter on his reconnaissance hood, and found that it gave him a moment of pause. It was too small to feasibly be a cultist, but too large to be any indigenous species that would wish to enter the vents or would be able to do so unnoticed. As the being shuffled closer and closer, apparently oblivious to his presence, the N7 perceived the reality of the situation, one that would doubtless give _others_ pause.

His fellow resident in the vents was a child. Age and gender were difficult to discern, but irrelevant. Its movements showed no indication of the unease one might have expected had it seen him, only the eagerness of an immature explorer, yet one might also have expected that a child wouldn't want to wander alone in a dark, cramped network of tunnels alone. Children were almost invariably more irrational and unintelligent than most people, and given that notably intelligent people were by definition in the minority it was entirely possible that the child could have decided to follow the large, dark, sometimes invisible entity it saw within the vents. And even if it didn't understand the danger now, at a later date an unfortunate flash of enlightenment could conceivably result in an outburst that would cause the failure of an objective essential to the success of the operation.

The child reached the assassin, who carefully withdrew into the perpendicular duct as if to allow it passage, before carefully reaching out, careful not to touch-

Then swiftly, all but silently, contracting his arms in two perfect vices, one crushing the little human's throat, denying its breath passage in order to cry out, or respire, and simultaneously pinning its arms to its head, immobilising both, whilst the other restrained the organism's legs in a like fashion even as they began to thrash in panic.

Even as the child strained weakly to act out its death throes, Shepard's mouth creased in distaste as he considered the action required to deal with this latest complication. Strangulation precluded the possibility that he could deploy the arachnoid venom, which unfortunately would only have strengthened the credibility of the chosen scenario, and meant that he couldn't afford to allow the body to be found. Thence, the only option was to remove the corpse from the compound to a location that wasn't swept by cultists.

The infant grew still within less than a minute, and its core body temperature began to drop to the ambient temperature, whereupon Shepard sourly, _painstakingly_, continued his departure from the vents, now pushing the inconvenient bystander's expired remains before him.

Having reached his destination, no longer willing to leave his machinations exposed to the fouling of anomalies, Thaddaeus swept his planned route briefly but thoroughly during the short window of sanctuary his cloak afforded him. On his return, he went through the awkward process of extricating the cadaver from the air duct and finally got a look at the entity that had introduced such disorder to another of the assassin's schemes.

It was an infant male, perhaps slightly older than a toddler, round face a rictus of agony and terror. Shepard didn't glance at it twice, a thought flitting through his mind momentarily on its course to more important issues.

_You picked a poor day to explore, boy..._


	16. Execution

A/N: And another scenario bites the dust... More to come. Eventually. Probably...

* * *

Execution

The child slung over his left shoulder in a limp parody of a fireman's lift, Shepard moved cautiously out into the open strip of land at the edge of the compound and made for one of the few neglected areas that was rarely checked by patrolling cultists. One corner of the compound lay at the bank of a river that had carved a deep path through the forest before meeting its match in the concrete foundations of the base and leaving a sheer ten metre high cliff. As a result, this apparently impregnable point in the compound's defences had been neglected, the tall fence allowed to corrode and the concrete to become chipped and weathered.

Whilst it was indeed a difficult proposition to enter the compound via this section of the perimeter, it was also the easiest place to leave – or would be momentarily. The canopy of leaves and branches had paid no heed to the open space beneath them and had grown out across the river and over the compound, supported by limbs once thick and strong, now withered and rotten due to the obvious influence of a fungal parasite. Their mass, however, was more than sufficient to break the wire palisade at the join with one of the pillars that rose out of the foundations, when detached by a customised plasma round fired from Shepard's omnitool fabricator, leaving traces resembling those resultant from a lightning strike.

Gritting his teeth, Shepard wrenched the gap open wider, relying on the insulation in his armour to negate the effects of an essentially lethal electrical current, before preparing to force the evidence through the gap-

And pausing as an idea occurred to him that seemed to solve just about all of the remaining potential problems with his plan in one fell swoop. Carefully, he positioned the cadaver so that when released, it would fall partially through the gap and come into contact with the electrified fence, then removed himself from contact with it. Immediately, the smell of charring meat filled the air within the immediate vicinity, as the marks that indicated the true cause of the boy's death were wiped clean. A cold, triumphant glow settled in the assassin's abdomen before rapidly dissipating as he checked his chronometer and, under the cover of his tactical cloak, moved for the next safe zone.

* * *

It had been over a day since the storm dissipated, and Reiser's hopes that somewhere within the compound an assassin was plotting Cohen's demise had all but evaporated. This despair was what drove him to finally succumb to the pestering of the parents of a missing child and respond with action rather than platitudes, altering the clockwork patrols into search parties for the missing boy, before eventually going to notify his erstwhile partner of the situation. He didn't expect Cohen or his pet psychopath to act on the situation, though – the gesture was an empty, though compulsory, courtesy, just another ritual to be observed.

He knocked, and hesitantly entered the private chambers that Jack sometimes shared with the cult's illustrious leader, to find them in the midst of another sparring match. Inwardly, Hans was grateful that he had not arrived later. He did not want to see the, ah, _climax_ of the pair's exertions, though it appeared to have been a fairly near-run thing. Cohen was a skilled martial artist and had successfully integrated his biotics into his fighting style, hauling opponents in close before shattering their skulls with a glowing blue fist, but Jack's sheer unadulterated _power_, even restrained for a sparring match, more than evened the odds. Whilst Cohen's attention was wholly occupied with negating the effects of a mass effect field forcing him backwards, Jack strode forward and doubled her opponent up with a strike to the diaphragm. His attention broken, the man's defences collapsed and he was flung up into the air before being slammed down onto his back, cerulean shackles around his wrists and ankles. Triumphant, Jack pounced, straddling her captive's waist-

"Ahem." Reiser cleared his throat loudly, deciding that matters had progressed _quite_ enough for his liking. Judging by the venomous glare 'Subject Zero' sent his way, she disagreed, but Hans pointedly ignored her. "My lord prophet," for so did Cohen like to be addressed "I felt you should be informed that one of the children of your followers has been missing for quite some time."

"Who gives a shit?" Jack snorted, reluctantly letting her prisoner up.

"I have, however, taken steps to ensure that the matter is dealt with and those whose shift it is to patrol are also searching for the boy." Hans finished, taking care once again to pay his usurper no heed as he bowed, before turning to leave.

"Wait." Cohen's rough voice forestalled him, and he turned back, surprised. Jack seemed thrown off-balance, too. A level of human concern? Perhaps his old friend was not quite so far gone as Reiser had once believed... "How long has the boy been gone?"

"Slightly over twenty-four standard hours. His mother says that he frequently disappears, though rarely for longer than a half-day." He replied efficiently.

The sinuous tattoos that traced the Red Sand addict's shaven head contorted as his eyes narrowed, mouth pursed in contemplation. He moistened his lips, coming to a decision. "Pull the patrols back and form a secure perimeter around our location. I want the compound searched from here outwards, and anything that doesn't belong killed, butchered, and brought to me."

Reiser diffidently suppressed his disappointment, wryly wondering why he had failed to notice the feverish suspicion in the so-called prophet's bloodshot eyes. As he left to do his master's bidding, however, he came to a sudden halt, realising that in his paranoia, Cohen had come to a possible conclusion that Hans had dismissed. Torn for a moment, between obedience and playing for time, he quickly decided that it would be his body being split in two, not his mind, if he neglected his orders. Instead for the first time since he was a naive child, somewhat ironically, he prayed that his own mistakes had been too little to ruin the coup or, failing that, that the supposed owner of his allegiance had simply been wrong.

* * *

For Shepard's part, he would have had little sympathy for the traitor if he knew the reason for which dozens of cultists were deviating from their schedules to form an expanding barrier around his target. There was no way to penetrate the lines without being seen even with the cloaking device-the duration for which it was active was simply too short. Over and over he was forced to give ground or be discovered, refraining from creating further 'accidents' that would stretch the bounds of anyone's credulity. With no solution apparent and his patience ground down to a dangerous extent, he hefted his Karpov, pondering the point at which he could dismiss the primary objective and settle for slaughter. At which point, staring through the sidearm in his hand, a thought flitted into his head and he almost cursed himself for failing to consider it sooner.

Backing up further, the assassin sealed himself within a small storage closet, and hastily disassembled the Karpov and the cloaking module , before cannibalising his sidearm's heat sink into the latter device's cooling system, a few hasty calculations assuring him that the device would now function long enough for him to circumvent the cultists' defences. Footsteps outside prompted him to snatch up his kit and activate the tactical cloak, disappearing in a shimmer of air, before the door opened and the cultist outside was greeted by the sight of total normalcy. Thaddaeus swiftly moved out into the open the moment the other human allowed him to do so, and rushed silently back in the direction from whence he came.

The upgrade gave him exactly one-hundred and twenty-seven seconds of precious near-invisibility; keeping a mental clock in his head, Shepard used them to his greatest possible advantage, clearing the expanding lines of patrolling cultists and ducking into a vent with scant femtoseconds to spare before the cooldown of his cloaking unit could attract any attention. He manoeuvred quickly through the system, senses primed for any more indications of coming disaster. He found himself nearing Cohen's quarters, and simultaneously noting sounds, increasing in volume, that suggested that the man was not alone.

Once again, his stratagem was rendered inappropriate for the circumstances in which he found himself, yet Shepard was disinclined to wait and offer anything else the opportunity to interfere. On the other hand, the nature of the sounds suggested that both he and his company were unlikely to be particularly, ah, _vigilant_ at this particular moment, which offered the opportunity for another wholly acceptable machination to take the place of the intended poisoning. It was a gamble, but a calculated one, and one that was vindicated the moment Thaddaeus stretched out to his full height within the hall of his quarry. The target was... _engaged_ with one of his flock, a young woman who despite her slight stature was surprisingly dominant, in all likelihood thanks to the biotics that she was making obvious use of, and that made her one of those so valuable to the Alliance.

Shepard contemplated the sight with a detached gaze and found the scenario to be according to his requirements. Alas, it involved a certain level of sacrifice with respect to one of the Alliance's untouchables, but on a far smaller scale than any other; indeed, it could even preclude a level of internal violence before more stable minds prevailed. Both Cohen and his partner were almost entirely oblivious to their surroundings, the latter on top and unlikely to notice a fire fight in the background, let alone the asphyxiation of her revered prophet beneath her. Without an adequate alternative explanation for his death, no one would pay any heed to her protestations of innocence, and the assassin didn't intend to offer her one. His modified tactical cloak would cover Cohen's descent into unconsciousness, at which point a crushed trachea would conclude the operation for him whilst he took his leave.

With an unnoticed shimmer, the N7 disappeared and approached the couple that were his next pair of victims. So close to success and failure Thaddaeus hardly dared to breathe, in spite of his conscious certainty that he had chosen the optimum approach. A hand over the mouth as he blocked the airway prevented any call; a split second was all that was required to ensure the constriction would last before Shepard could disconnect the amp from the base of Cohen's skull and devote his attention to restraining the man he stood over, half his attention on the naked girl before him, watching for any sign that she might become aware that something was awry.

Cohen's attempted flailing, straining against the invisible assassin's hold on his limbs, grew steadily weaker, his eyes filled with frenzied confusion and disbelief as he found his life and his ambitions slipping away, their strength directly correlated with the oxygen content in his blood. Finally, he relaxed, and Shepard released him, replacing the amp before hastening to reach his exit point, aware of the seconds trickling away. A sleeper hold would have been a faster way to induce unconsciousness, but would have allowed the 'prophet' too much freedom of movement for the few seconds it would have to last, increasing the risk of discovery all the more given the man's biotics.

Even as he escaped, moving through the compound to where he left the boy, somewhat inevitably according to Murphy's Law, events came to a head before diverting onto a collision course with catastrophe. Climaxing, Jack suddenly realised just how inert Cohen was, scrambled for a pulse and found none.

"Shit..." She said to herself in shock and dawning horror as she noted the telltale bruising on his neck. "Oh, fuck..." She grabbed her clothes and made to leave, only to be met by Reiser, who had concluded that now that his old friend and his new pet were finished he ought to report the cultists' lack of findings. He took in the sight before him, his gaze meeting hers and filling with a multi-tiered realisation and elation that, regrettably, he simply wasn't quick enough to hide from the psychopath before him. He realised that, too, and went for the pistol at his waist-

"Bastard!" Subject Zero snarled, and hurled him backwards with her biotics, sending him smashing into the wall at the end of the corridor. To his credit, Hans had his barriers up before the moment of impact, buffering him and leaving him able to rise moments later, weapon aimed squarely at his attacker. She ignored the gesture, however, and simply ran at him headlong, letting her own barriers take shot after shot as she closed in. Fear began to invade Reiser's mind as the weapon in his hands overheated and he hesitated, before throwing a shockwave at the slender dreadnaught, which she casually waved aside, before taking flight, calling at the top of his lungs for aid. Her blood up, Jack gave no thought to alternatives before pursuing.

She wasn't able to catch him before Reiser caught the leading edge of the returning cultists and reported her murder of their leader. As a result, she suddenly found herself facing off against a dozen frenzied zealots rather than a single, panic stricken schemer. As was her usual approach, she let instinct take over and did what came naturally. The charging fanatics were met by a powerful warp that destroyed the weapons of those who had barriers and simply destroyed those who didn't, spraying the surroundings with shrapnel and bloody viscera, followed by hyper-accelerated rounds as the cultists outside of the warp's radius opened fire into thin air; Jack launched herself out of their line of fire, before yanking her nearest assailant of his feet and snatching his shotgun. Breathing heavily and grinning maniacally as the thrill of the slaughter rushed through her veins, she opened fire.

* * *

Behind him, as he negotiated the dense fauna and flora of the rainforest, Shepard detected numerous detonations that he attributed to small arms fire, then a series of larger explosions that prompted him to make for a vantage point, sniper rifle pulled from its position on his back. The carnage he observed was undeniably impressive; his second intended victim was indiscriminately tearing the compound and its occupants, her former comrades, to pieces; as a matter of fact the more concussive discharges were results of their entirely futile attempts to stop her. Quite impressed, yet also undeniably frustrated at the collapse of his scheme due to his underestimation of the girl's ability, he attempted to line up a shot before sighing in exasperation as his target arbitrarily changed direction and swept out of his sight.

The cult had two shuttles capable of FTL on its landing pad, in the process of being equipped with weapons. Still watching for a shot, Thaddaeus didn't have to wait for long before one of them, apparently filled with some of the zealots that actually had survival instincts, lurched up into the air, followed quickly by the other, and something else that had the assassin exhaling in a surprised hiss. A radiant blue figure launched itself after the second shuttle, using the relatively common charge technique to defy gravity's hold and cover the dozen metres between it and the fleeing craft. Standing on the slanted front, in full view of its terrified pilot, the girl who had proven such an awkward addition to his plot blasted the vehicles kinetic barriers until her shotgun overheated, then smashed the unyielding metal with a fist encased in energy. The toughened, space worthy alloy resisted the blow, but judging by the shuttle's failure to continue to retain any semblance of stability, the organic at its helm wasn't so resilient.

It was at that point the N7 concluded that it would be a mistake to send a hyper-accelerated shard of metal through the obstinate female's skull when there was even a remote possibility of bringing her to Hogan alive. Instead, he assessed the careening vessel's trajectory and, disregarding the hazardous wildlife around him, ran for its final destination; the compound from whence it came. Unfortunately, the girl remained true to form in her propensity for thwarting him, and performed yet another physics-defying traverse to the other shuttle, clinging to its side before forcing the manual release of its door and clambering inside. For several instants, the craft plummeted with its twin whilst Subject Zero slaughtered its previous owners, before righting itself and setting a course to leave the planet behind. Beneath, the other attempted to replicate the feat, but only succeeded in colliding with a building that, judging by the resultant detonation, contained the munitions, and possibly fuel supplies, of the now extinct cult.

Shepard flinched away from the searing heat of the blast, before actually throwing himself out of the path of the flying debris. Stepping cautiously to his feet, he surveyed the devastation that surrounded him, and eventually allowed himself a rueful chuckle. Hogan would be displeased with the outcome, he knew, but he wouldn't lose any sleep over a few incinerated fanatics. The walking extinction level event, however, would be occupying his thoughts for a while longer, he thought, as he gazed up at her shuttle, before turning to make his way back through the rainforest...


	17. Exposure

Exposure

The journalist disliked moving around in public. The reason, ironically enough; cameras made his skin itch, as though he could already feel the (metaphoric, such obvious targeting systems had long been superseded) targeting laser through his clothes. He erratically wove his way down the crowded, filthy Cambodian streets, his tired green eyes roving for surveillance devices and then proceeding to move through their blind spots. Admittedly, he made for a fairly distinctive figure beneath the haze of chemical clouds, at the onset of middle age in his early forties, pale, pallid skin almost matching the grey in his hair that he felt certain had nothing to do with his age, amidst a veritable sea of tan and charcoal. However, the man's dislike of exposure was not limited to unnatural environments beyond the bright, sterile metropolises of the Americas, and it was a result of some remarkably specific concerns.

Nearing what passed for the spaceport, in actuality just a patch of farmland that had been smothered in concrete and allowed to remain flat, the Caucasian peeled off into an alleyway. Two rushed figures followed him from within the depths of the throng.

The two young muggers who accosted Simon Ross on his way to board his ship, demanding his credit chits in a language the Canadian dubiously identified as truly atrocious Mandarin, could have picked a better target. They could have picked someone who wasn't currently concerning himself with blowing the whistle on some of the human government's more unsavoury activities, and as a result living in an appropriate state of what some might label as paranoia. Ross' retort to such accusations had always been that said paranoia was what would thwart the people that were out to get him.

As a result, the two muggers found themselves abruptly relieved of their knives and electrocuted with an omnitool tazer blast the moment they entered the appropriate range, and were promptly left writhing on the ground in states compared to which unconsciousness might have been preferable. Ross made sure, however, that there was no risk that the idiots might have been killed. First, the idea was morally repugnant to him. Second, there was no reason to make himself vulnerable to the authorities to such a grievous extent by handing them legitimate felonies on a silver platter. Boarding a commercial transport vessel was a sufficiently hazardous endeavour in its own right; it amounted to being trapped in a highly confined environment for several days during which the ship could simply disappear, and not even necessarily due to the influence of those who would silence him.

As one might sensibly deduce, then, something had lured Simon into entering the airtight steel trap. Something so valuable as to radically upset the balance of risk versus reward. And, considering the nature of the journalist's work, it would be no great leap of reasoning to conclude that he was pursuing a story. The mother-lode, as a matter of fact. A hacker had contacted him, using the alias 'Hex', claiming to have penetrated the defences of the Alliance's most heavily classified database, and to have found something so poisonous to humanity's military and political leaders that those who weren't indicted would be deposed by sheer force of the resultant galactic outrage. He wanted to meet, face to face, on Illium, to ensure that the information got to the right people.

Of course, Ross had been suspicious. Then, he read the 'lesser' materiel that had been forwarded as a gesture of goodwill, and decided that anything that dwarfed it was most certainly worth a certain level of jeopardy. He offset that risk by giving instructions to his solicitor to release the contents of his secure deposit box to the general media should he fail to make contact within a day of his arrival to countermand their disclosure.

However, that wasn't to say that like any number of his colleagues, the journalist was an adrenaline junkie who did what he did precisely _because_ of the danger; more nights than not he lay awake bathing in his own cold sweat. No, he pursued the exposure of the crimes of those in authority because he was a capable and competent investigator, and because it was necessary; he did it because it was the right thing to do. A democracy functioned according to the will of the people, thus the people had to be properly informed. He was by no means naïve; democracy was at best a terrible, indecisive and short-sighted political system, but it was the most preferable option amidst a sea of poor alternatives.

He did take the liberty of checking the passenger records to ensure that there was no-one who screamed 'black-ops', whilst being only too aware that if they were not even _he_ would be able to identify them as such with so little information available. Nothing seemed to be too out of order to him, however, hence he was taking his flight out of one of the most discreet (i.e. dilapidated) port on Earth (whatever people said, south-east Asia hadn't changed much since the turbulent and corrupt days of the twenty-first century, despite the skin-deep industrial revolution), which did on the other hand mean that he had to deal with lesser risks like the whimpering youths behind him.

He moved through the spaceport quickly, partially as a result of his not purchasing anything as he didn't need anything enough to leave a record of his presence, partially due to the fact that the security checks he encountered were as cursory and as lacking in utility as the data in the passenger manifests. The scanners were old, tuned to detect eezo and nothing else, so if anyone decided to attempt to circumvent the system by carrying more archaic weaponry, nothing would stop them-not that they needed to as one could carry any number of offensive programmes on one's omnitool without any scrutiny whatsoever. As deplorable as the situation was, it was also the reason he was using this route, so Ross kept his disapproval internalised. He boarded late, behind the vast majority of the other passengers, and quickly made his way to the relative safety of his cabin.

First came the lengthy sweep for surveillance devices, toxins, explosives; anything more malignant than a dirty bed sheet. As it happens, the rancid excuse for linen tested positive for narcotics, as well as several other things Ross preferred not to consider, certainly not all at once. It went in the disposal chute. Simon had no intention of sleeping, in any case.

Instead he kept himself awake with work; drafting and tinkering with the articles he was developing from the evidence he had already been given, plotting the next moves of the endless game of chess he chose to play against the powerful and influential minority. Assuming the weapon Hex gave him was as potent as was promised, using it would mean life would become exponentially more difficult; he'd have painted a target upon his flesh that neither the current government, nor their successors, nor their allies in industry, could ever afford to ignore. Disposing of him permanently would be difficult whilst he was in the public eye; attempts to discredit him were more probable but easy to defend against, yet the spotlight would fade fast and leave him vulnerable if he ever rested on his laurels.

That in turn demanded new potential targets, new lines of inquiry-

The ship lurched as it dropped out of FTL. Causing Ross to raise his head from the display on his omnitool, brow furrowed. Whilst the transport had already gone through the Charon relay, they were quite some time away from Illium, and had no other scheduled destinations before that. Something was clearly awry – though whether that something was just an innocent technical fault or something rather more sinister remained to be seen.

"_Attention. This is the captain speaking. We have made an unscheduled drop from FTL for unknown reasons, and are reading an unlicensed vessel on our sensors. Please return to your quarters as per emergency protocol and await further instructions from-"_

"_Our representatives, who will be taking possession of this ship momentarily."_ An obviously synthesised voice interrupted the intercom announcement. _"Co-operate with their demands, and you will remain unharmed. Any attempts to resist will result in severe penalties."_

Ross could have laughed, had the situation been less serious. All the time and effort he had spent guarding against Alliance hit squads transpired to have been utterly futile – the ship he had chosen had also been selected as a target by pirates. Ironically, he was already fairly familiar with the strategy they had apparently opted for; a hacker working with the criminals would board the transport as a passenger and set the nav-computer to make a rendezvous with the rest of the group, who would then board, steal any valuables, sell the ship or take it for themselves, and auction of the crew and customers to slavers in the Terminus.

Needless to say, such an outcome was unacceptable. Whilst he couldn't vouch for the virtue of his fellow passengers, statistically, most of them wouldn't be criminals deserving of the death penalty in any of the states that allowed it. These people would either be killed or sold into slavery and made to suffer for the remainder of their subsistence. Furthermore, he would never receive Hex's data and so the corruption in the upper echelons of the human government and military cadre would never meet justice – in fact, given his slight level of fame, one of the hijackers would probably recognise him, secure the information he already had, and use it to blackmail those it incriminated, compounding the injustice.

Ross knew that his chances of repelling all boarders and so entirely defusing the threat were slim to none; he had ensured that he was capable in most combat situations and perhaps a match for a single opponent with military training, but weight of numbers skewed the odds too far in the favour of the enemy. On the other hand, if he could wrest control of the ship's computer systems from the hacker, he would be able to do a number of things that would at minimum limit the victories of his opponents, or in the most optimistic of scenarios put the pirates into custody and continue with his intended plans. At minimum, a call for help was viable, and potentially getting a message to Hex to recommend another colleague to contact.

Unfortunately, as his heretofore flawless execution hinted, the hacker wasn't stupid and had immediately shut down the transport's wireless network; there would be no remote access anymore. Ross needed to get to a terminal wired into the secure network in person, and understood all too well the difficulties that such a notion entailed. He set to priming the offensive programmes he had placed on his military-grade omnitool for activation at a moment's notice, then felt the _**thud**_that reverberated all over the ship, followed by painfully brief echoes of distant gunfire. Nerving himself, he approached his cabin door.

Opening it a crack, he observed that the main lighting had been killed, and the corridors were almost completely dark. Hastily, he tuned his cabin's lighting to match, before having the door open fully with a quiet hiss and venturing out, ready to bring up his omnitool at a fraction of a moment's notice. Recalling the vague direction from which the sounds of conflict had been coming, he opted to head in the opposite direction and postpone any confrontation whilst he got his bearings, hugging the shadows at the walls, away from the emergency lighting.

A hiss ahead of him gave him an instant's warning of an unknown party's approach, which he put to use by ducking into the slightly greater cover of the doorway to another cabin. In the subdued lighting, he couldn't see much of the other man, except that he was armed, a pistol held at the ready before him, and that he was thankfully facing away from the journalist, moving in the same direction. Shadows rippling over his body as he moved indicated the bulk of armour beneath a long coat; not a crewmember or guard, then. In all likelihood he was moving to reinforce the hacker's position, or at the very least to secure or sabotage another position which could be used to regain control, which would be fortuitous for Ross if it were likely that he could follow the pirate and then incapacitate both him and his possible colleague. However, he was not so confident, which suggested a necessity to deal with the hijacker before him now and resign himself to difficulties in finding his target.

Stealthily, he leaned out of his cover and followed the other human, rolling his footsteps so as not to make a sound, raising his omnitool as he entered effective range-

And in front of him, the man tensed, raising his weapon and beginning to turn, despite Ross' certainty that he had made no audible noise. Regardless, he primed an overload, choosing it for its obvious capacity to intimidate as well as to disarm the other man, and potentially incapacitate him too, depending on the quality of his shielding. The lighting crackled along the forefront of the omnitool's glowing interface as the journalist brought it dangerously close to the side of the man's face.

"Drop your weapon." Simon instructed softly, no trace of hesitance in his voice. The other man forced himself to relax slightly, bringing one of his hands away from his sidearm and holding them both out before him.

"You're making a mistake." He replied just as quietly, in an English accent. "I'm not-"

Ross unleashed the overload and followed up with a tazer-strength blast, causing his target to drop his pistol and stagger against the wall, hissing in anger and pain. "-Interested? That would make two of us." His foe turned, causing the journalist to raise his arm again threateningly, intending to knock him out, but at that point, the other man looked past him, and decided he had greater concerns than vengeance. One arm shot out and yanked Ross into an arm-bar, the other followed to throw him down. Ross rolled over to see the unknown figure running at a pair of hijackers that had turned the corner behind them, their approach presumably hastened by the discharge of the overload.

As the pair opened fire, one with an assault rifle, the other with a shotgun, the journalist's unexpected ally raised his arms and sent a cerulean biotic pulse back in their direction, oddly enough failing to raise any sort of barrier although it seemed to do the trick and prevent him from being shredded in his unshielded state. The man stumbled as he manipulated the energy surge, then righted himself moments later as he closed with his opponents. Deftly, he twisted around the blast as the shotgun was fired at point blank range, continuing the motion to plant a carbon-ceramic composite blade into the shoulder join of the pirate's armour. The man yelled in pain and was thrown from the fight briefly as his comrade barged him aside to lunge for his assailant.

The stock of his assault rifle bashed into his target's cheek, and the man reeled, stumbling backwards, now on the defensive. A moment later, however, it became apparent that the situation wasn't quite so dire for him as it had seemed. An arm had reached out and got a firm grip on the pirate's firearm even as he struck with it, thence pulling the hijacker back with him lest he lose the advantage of his weapon, and forcing him to sacrifice the lesser advantage of sufficient distance to use it effectively. Trying to regain the advantage, the thug entangled his legs with those of his opponent and sent them tumbling to the ground, landing on top and immediately attempting to extricate himself and regain his feet. His adversary, however, was not interested in facilitating his efforts, instead focussing on flipping the criminal so that their positions were reversed. He received another jarring blow to the head for his trouble.

In the meantime, the wounded hijacker had recovered sufficiently to have clawed successfully for his shotgun and was now attempting to aim it steadily, one armed, from his position slumped against the wall a few metres from his struggling ally. Ross tried to sabotage his efforts with another overload blast from his omnitool, but found that the weapon was insulated from the attack by resilient shields. All that was achieved was that Ross' target was made aware of a more immediate threat. He twisted, wincing, and fired a wild blast in the journalist's general direction, the kick sending most of the projectiles into the ceiling.

Simon flinched away from the detonation regardless, ducking back into a doorway and fumbling with his omnitool to set up something more lethal. In spite of all his training, being under live fire was a new and traumatising experience. Finally having prepared an 'incineration' subroutine for his fabricator, he began to lean out of cover to be greeted by another woefully inaccurate but intimidating one handed shot, whilst the pirate attempted to close to a range where he couldn't miss. Perceiving his peril, Ross blindly loosed the plasma round and fled to an alcove further from the conflict, he desperately sought internally for a solution to his plight, before remembering the pistol that now lay in the corridor between him and the hijacker.

Under the cover of another incandescent projectile, Ross scrambled for the weapon, staying low to minimise his profile as the hijacker still advancing, opened fire and broke into a run. Ross reached the sidearm and snatched it up, raising it to aim down the sights and straight into the muzzle of the shotgun leering at him from point blank range.

On the other side of the battlefield, the other criminal had given up on shooting his opponent and settled for throttling him with his weapon. Unfortunately for him, this had given his adversary an opening to slam a pair of disorienting blows into his ears and topple him from the high ground, before relieving him of his weapon and executing him with a brutal burst to the forehead that left his face unrecognisable as being human. Looking up, he located the other member of the opposition and laid him low with several rounds in the back.

Ross shuddered a sigh of relief as the gaping maw of his death turned away from him, then remembered caution and turned his weapon on his saviour, to see that he had done the same. There was a brief pause as both men caught their breath. It was the stranger who spoke first.

"Simon Ross?" The journalist tensed further, tightened his grip on the pistol. His target took that to be confirmation. "Relax, I've read your work, but it's not why I'm here. I'm N7, posted to this sector to investigate the ship disappearances. Can't say I was expecting to get hit on my way out, but there it is. These people had to be dealt with sooner or later..."

"Am I to understand that you're asking for my help?" The journalist replied, suspicions not entirely quieted. N7s were elite; they were to most special forces what special forces were to grunt infantry. Why would one be risked on an operation like this? It wasn't overkill, but why send an ace to do a job that a small team of jacks could handle? Furthermore, something about the man was familiar; his voice, his face, though that might just have been the distorting effect of the shadows created by the poor ambient light.

"Two guns are almost always better than one, in my experience." The commando confirmed. "Don't worry, you can stay back. I'm just looking for you to provide suppressing fire and the like."

"I could do that..." Ross agreed reluctantly, lowering the weapon and getting up to approach the partner that part of him was still urging him to flee from. The N7 reciprocated, then offered him the assault rifle. Ross took it, returning the pistol, then offered him his hand.

Warily, Thaddaeus Shepard shook with the man he had been sent to kill.

* * *

The hacker with control over the transport's computer systems went by many names. In fact, even the identity with which he had been born was just another facade to be used and discarded as it suited him. Whichever persona he wore at that moment, though, was having a good day, and not least because of what he had just seen and heard over the ship's surveillance systems. The journalist was an obvious bonus, given the secrets he doubtless knew, and whilst some might regret attacking a ship with an N7 on board, there were possible benefits for those who moved in the right circles...

Opening a channel of communication with the leader of the gang's muscle, he quickly began to update him; "Listen. This job may just have gotten much, much more lucrative than we originally expected. There are two passengers on board that it is imperative that you take alive..."


	18. Collaboration

Collaboration

All was not well in Thaddaeus Shepard's universe. As the adage went, every soldier is only as good as his last battle in the eyes of his commander. Apparently, Michael Hogan was no exception – and that made Operative Thanatos a failure. And that called for penalties, repercussions – in the form of restricting his knowledge and therefore power, by virtue of upgrading the security on the N7 databases to an exponentially greater degree. It was good work; Shepard would have been able to hack it eventually, given the time and privacy, but the other problem was that now he was being afforded neither. Even the assignment had been an indication of his CO's displeasure – Hogan hadn't seen a need to kill Ross, merely to monitor him. Ironically, it was only Thaddaeus' diligent vigil that had alerted them to the journalist's activities, for the man had been far too careful to be caught by the usual electronic surveillance.

And now to even have a hope of reclaiming some vestige of the high ground, the power that he had lost due to nothing more than unfortunate circumstance, the assassin had no real choice but to let his target live, gain his trust – fight at his side. It mightn't be impossible to murder him and then make use of an escape pod, but Shepard knew that Ross had contingencies stashed that could do a potent amount of damage to the Alliance and other groups in the event of his demise. Contingencies that would be just as useful to an assassin as a journalist. But to sabotage those schemes and claim the payload for his own, first those infernal hijackers had to be dealt with.

First things first, the hacker, now that he had located Ross. Their control over the ship's automated systems, both internal and external, made them by far the most dangerous opponent. This in turn begged the question of where exactly the hacker was, since you could make a bet at highly reasonable odds that he'd have locked out every terminal but his own from the ship's network. In spite of the fact that his excuse, should Ross enquire as to why Thaddaeus was where he was and not helping the ship's security repel the boarders, had been that he was searching for the hacker, Shepard doubted that he was headed in the right direction. The most prudent location would be near the point at which the hijackers boarded so as to be in annexed territory as quickly as possible, but secure and fairly secluded to avoid becoming collateral damage. And yet, that line of reasoning also demanded an explanation for the presence of the two recently deceased keeping the two men company; why were they so far from their comrades?

Unless perhaps, rather than being tasked with securing any particular asset, they were part of the hijackers' overall strategy to deal with shipboard personnel; making a flanking manoeuvre in order to minimise casualties and collateral damage on both sides and thus maximise profit. Except that a squad of two was too small for such a machination not to be prohibitively risky, without real-time Intel from...

"So, do we have a plan?" Ross asked cautiously, intruding upon Shepard's introspection. Throwing a brief glance up at the CCTV camera at the far end of the corridor, the N7 cursed internally, before regarding the journalist intently.

"I needed to reconsider certain things in light of your presence. Shipboard security were poorly equipped, trained, led and disciplined, and from the sounds of it have surrendered, or been killed or subdued. Their position was untenable and, as you can see, the hijackers were already moving to flank. My intention had been to harass and weaken their forces, then use that freedom to locate their hacker, incapacitate him, then punch through their lines and regain control of the bridge." Sensibly, the hijackers had boarded so as to seize control of the main controls almost immediately. "With you here, we should be able to move straight to the second phase."

In actuality, there was no real choice in the matter. The hijackers would have a decisive real-time knowledge of the battlefield until control of the ship's systems could be wrested from their control, making _any_ strategy a weak one, particularly if it had any focus other than taking that advantage away.

Without any further ceremony, Thaddaeus turned and fired a single unerring round into the surveillance device, before heading back the way he had come. "Stay behind me, and don't shoot anything unless I tell you to."

Currently, he and his companion were on the topmost deck of the transport, the bridge being located at the far front of the bottom level. Clearly, the ship's elevators weren't an option; even if the hacker permitted them access he'd also have control over their movements. In his position, Thaddaeus would simply drop those with the audacity to oppose him down the shaft, possibly more than once. In any case, that meant an alternate route was required. A stairway, with manual access for maintenance and emergencies, would be located near to the trap. It suited the assassin's purposes, though it would doubtless be the anticipated alternative. Even so, he refused to acknowledge the situation as one that qualified as an emergency. Maintenance, perhaps – he was purging a shipboard contaminant, after all.

The duo hurried along a stark corridor lined with passenger cabins, Thaddaeus having adjusted the pace such that Ross could keep up whilst moving reasonably quietly before focussing his attention on sabotaging any surveillance devices, and listening for any hint of hostile contact that might offer him more time to react-

Nonetheless, he was caught as unprepared as the general situation warranted when he and the journalist reached a junction and were greeted by a corridor dammed with a line of pirates, weapons at the ready. Shepard was just fast enough to throw Ross back out of the line of fire, his own response slowed by a fresh stab of agony as his body flashed blue, before the volley slammed into his kinetic barriers and shut them down almost immediately, nearly knocking his feet from under him. The armour that guarded his legs and lower torso buckled in dozens of small craters, but remained whole for the instant required for the assassin to simultaneously fire a dazzling ball of plasma at the enemy's line and hurl himself into cover on the other side of the junction to Ross.

Curses indicated the ploy had bought him a couple of seconds, the duration of which his mind was racing. They'd got the drop on him because they were ready in position; an ambush, liberal in its use of manpower. Clearly they'd been noted as a serious threat; audio devices must have picked up his declaration that he was an N7. And yet, firing so low, compromising the lethality of the tactic, could only indicate that they were wanted alive. Obviously, they knew who Ross was, and were prepared to risk tangling with an elite commando to find out what he knew, doubtless for many of the same reasons that Shepard hadn't already eliminated him.

The thought of the journalist prompted Thaddaeus to glance in his direction, across the void already being filled with suppressing fire by the hijackers as they doubtless advanced. He found himself meeting Simon's fearful gaze, and then realised the magnitude of the error he had made in the heat of the moment, instinctively continuing forwards toward his objective. Only his primary objective was separated from him by a lethal hail of fire, and staring at him in consternation. No; that wasn't it, Ross was staring _past_ him...

Shepard turned to see an already effective tactic on the part of his foes completed, and swore aloud. Three more thugs advanced down the corridor from which the assassin and the journalist had no cover. Fortunately, they didn't need it, as their attackers weren't firing at them – _couldn't _fire, actually. They were fully occupied holding military grade riot shields, the sort occasionally employed by C-Sec; tall, wide, thick, heavy, and nigh impenetrable. The three of them, shoulder to shoulder, formed a solid wall to match that of their comrades to Thaddaeus' immediate rear. Quite literally, the walls were closing in. Time, or Shepard's ever so subjective perception of it, seemed to slow still further as his brain went into interstellar overdrive.

The 'legionaries', as the assassin spontaneously dubbed them, had left their feet exposed, but if they had any sense the moment he took aim they'd stop and cover that one vulnerability. They could afford to; he was milliseconds away from being outflanked. Yet even if they didn't, extremities, armoured and presumably barriered as they were, would still take too long to tear into, during which time their allies would sweep down into the corridor behind him, secure Ross and have him comprehensively trapped and ripe for slaughter.

_Position untenable. Fall back. How?_

The rapidly approaching criminals were still laying down heavy suppressing fire, and his kinetic barriers were still non-existent. Ordinarily, he would readily resort to the tactical cloak module installed in his armour, but being nigh impossible to see did not make one nigh impossible to shoot – merely a problematic target. Flood an area with a sufficient volume of projectiles and whether you could be seen or not became wholly irrelevant in the matter of whether or not you could be killed. Whomever was co-ordinating all of this was frustratingly good. It would be a pleasure to demonstrate his superiority later on...

The option Thaddaeus favoured least occurred to him next. Biotics; possible death by virtue of a brain haemorrhage versus probable death by virtue of being riddled with miniscule shards of hyper-accelerated metal. That was all the calculation amounted to. Unless there was another alternative...

Tech trickery was unlikely to faze the enemy now; he'd shown his hand with the plasma in an admittedly desperate situation but such a ploy would not work twice, and even if it wouldn't interfere with his own equipment at a time when his resources were already decidedly limited, his omnitool couldn't generate an EMP strong enough to put their weapons out of action for a moment. _Interfere..._

"ROSS!" Shepard bellowed over the reports of perhaps a dozen forearms. "OVERLOAD!" He brought up his omnitool as the journalist nodded and mirrored the action, raised two fingers, dropped one, then-

The principle of superposition states that waves of the same type, travelling through the same area of space-time, will interfere and produce a wave pattern with the vector sum of the waves' individual amplitudes. An EMP is just a high intensity pulse of electromagnetic radiation, therefore it behaves in the same way as other waves in this respect. When the assassin and the journalist simultaneously fired their respective pulses blindly down the corridor that divided them, the two waves overlapped, at some points negating each other, at others _doubling_ the intensity of the blast. The wavelength of most of the electromagnetic spectrum being miniscule meant that the gaps between these points were equally miniscule, and as such all of the charging thugs found that their weapons momentarily ceased to function, along with their shields. Regrettably, so did those of the duo, meaning there was only one way in which they could exploit the situation; retreat.

Shepard bolted out of cover and past the journalist, who followed more quickly still when the legionaries behind them set their shields aside for a moment and sent a flurry of pistol fire after them. Their targets hunched their backs in response, minimising their respective profiles and veering back and forth, meaning no rounds hit them before they turned the next corner. Thaddaeus continued to lead the way at a run however; thudding feet behind them indicated that a number of hijackers had followed them, though certainly not their entire number.

A quick glance downward told him that the computer systems within his Karpov had successfully rebooted; it was time to be proactive again, regain the initiative and force his foes to respond to his strategies rather than being forced to react to theirs. The strategist commanding the operation, unsurprisingly, seemed to have other ideas.

"_Mr Ross?"_ A filtered voice filled the ship. Shepard gritted his teeth sourly – Ross, as a civilian, was vastly more vulnerable to psychological warfare due to his lack of basic military conditioning and experience, and the increase in background noise served to cover the sounds of their pursuers, as well as any possible ambushers. All in all, it was a ploy the assassin himself would have used in this very situation. _"There's no need for any more of this... __**unpleasantness**__. I believe that there has been nothing more than a simple misunderstanding of our intentions here, and I'm confident we can rectify it like civilised adults. My associates and I have no wish to see you dead, unlike the supposed __**'marine'**__ at your side..."_

Conscious of his façade, the N7 grimaced and uttered a grim, quiet laugh as he turned to regard the journalist. "Don't tell me you're going to let this bastard fool you..." Ross shook his head, smiling weakly. The gesture was not one that particularly inspired confidence, Thaddaeus reflected. No time to deal with that now; the pounding signs of pursuit were a conspicuous reminder of his lack of breathing room. His gaze was drawn to the air ducts notably protruding from the ceiling, then fixed upon a grille that swiftly passed through his field of view as the duo ran onwards. _More bloody vents... delightful._

"Stop. Into that doorway." He instructed the journalist loudly, realising that there was no advantage in sacrificing clarity for quietness; the criminals following them would be alerted by the cessation of their less than subtle footsteps in any case. Simon hesitated, the uncertainty flickering across his face as he hefted his rifle nervously, as fearful of more combat as he was of the pirates and the man who claimed to want his help. His eyes flitted to the Karpov in the marine's steady grip and then up to a face, wreathed in shadow, that was studiously blank despite the impatience in its owner's voice. Pitch black stared at him from where human eyes belonged. He moved to do Shepard's bidding, crouching in the specified alcove. "Keep your eyes open and their heads down." the orders continued, as their origin gestured back in the direction whence they had come, before moving past him. Simon risked a furtive glance over his shoulder to see the silhouette of his ally tinkering with a grating in the roof of the corridor.

_CRACK CRACK!_ Hyper-accelerated rounds seared through the air in terrifyingly close proximity to his face, leaving behind them a fine ionised tang in his nose. He whirled back to the front, and didn't wait for the testy "Ross!" from behind to fire a discouraging burst at the shape leaning around the corner, and the others moving out past them. Somewhere in the back of his mind it registered that they weren't shooting to kill, and he reeled in revulsion at the realisation that he was. The forefront of his attention was on making sure that he did it right.

More rounds flew past him, this time in the other direction, alongside his own. "Moving up." the Englishman announced as loudly as was necessary, before darting forwards into a depression on the other side of the corridor, paying no heed to the projectiles that glanced off of his kinetic barriers as he covered nearly all of the distance between them and their attackers. A double flash of orange contrasted heavily with the blue muzzle-flash of mass accelerators, and a splash of plasma ate through the remaining shields of one unfortunate aggressor and into his armour, then his skin. His colleagues dragged him back out of sight, screaming and clawing (very unwisely) at himself, before quickly coming forward again and reopening fire with as much vengeance as shooting to wound would allow.

On the other hand, they hadn't seen the nearer of their foes quickly hack the door of the cabin he sheltered outside, hadn't heard the fright of its occupant over their own comrade's agony, and didn't notice the a section of wall in the corridor behind them glow red, then white as Shepard carved his way through it, before allowing the smoking metal to topple gently back into the room and delicately step through the newly opened portal, under the cover of his cloak, of course. His first course of action was to ensure that there were no surveillance devices in a fit state to be monitoring him. His second was to assess the enemy: six well armed and armoured thugs, one already incapacitated and apparently freshly sedated, the other five maintaining a constant cycle of fire – three on, two off, allowing their weapons to cool and their shields to recharge at regular intervals. More holding tactics, no hint of a strategy to break the apparent stalemate, which immediately led Thaddaeus to conclude that the source of that offensive would be Ross' flank.

A knife appeared in his left hand (or would have, were any of his anatomy visible); it wouldn't short out his cloak or cause due alarm to his intended victims. First, a careful insertion of the composite blade into the vulnerable armpit of the one who was sleeping. Second, a more perfunctory slash across the throat of the nearest man, who imprudently neglected a helmet, before a double shot, point blank, into his startled, suddenly blood smeared contemporary's visor, the first cracking the transparent material, the second punching through to burrow into his skull. Even as the dead man's allies turned, spraying fire on instinct, he deactivated his cloak to allow his armour to focus on supporting his shielding for the brief moment he required to knock the nearest enemy's rifle aside and launch a kick that slammed him back into his closely packed peers and sent all three of them stumbling into Ross' line of sight. Within the space of a moment, their shields were perilously near to being non-existent, before a liberal administration of plasma finished the job and their resistance. None of the three was in any state to offer assistance or relief to the other two as they had before.

Dismissing them, the assassin strode quickly back down the corridor towards his designated target, very nearly opening fire when the journalist send a flurry of rifle rounds past him down the corridor, before he analysed their vector and heard the screaming behind him cease, and realised Simon had been ending the hijackers' misery. Pointedly ignoring the gesture, he nodded up at the entrance into the ventilation ducts he had made a brief while earlier, offering a boost and a single syllable. "Up." Without a word, Ross ascended and then offered a hand to assist Shepard, who snatched up the vent cover before following, securing it again once he was in. Making painstaking efforts to avoid creating noise, the two crawled in single file in the darkness until Thaddaeus was satisfied that they had left the area and that no hostile was within earshot.

"My orders have nothing to do with murdering you." He stated in a low voice, twisting to face the man to whom he was lying through his teeth. "If they did, your body would be stowed in your cabin and I would be drifting in the nearest escape pod. The pirates' presence here would even offer the Alliance the perfect cover-up. And your reputation, the reason you're afraid of my COs, and of me, is the reason these men want you alive; believe me when I assure you that that ought to be the outcome you desire the least." The assassin didn't bother to attempt to deny that any member of the Alliance brass would even contemplate the murder of an inconvenient journalist. One of the reasons he was so very problematic was that he knew all too well that they would.

Ross nodded, his body language inscrutable, betraying no hint of whatever his internal thought processes were; the most that could be guessed was that he was apparently satisfied for the time being. "What now?" He enquired softly.

"We still need to get to the hacker, but whoever's coordinating their strategy will want to make that difficult for us. We've dropped off of the grid for the time being, but we still need to use one of the emergency stairways to get to the lowermost deck. We're near one that should be behind the front line of their search, which will buy us a little time. The moment we leave the vent, however, they'll be coming for us."

"_Mr Ross, your stubborn refusal to consider your own wellbeing disappoints myself and my colleagues. What has your assassin told you? That if he were indeed sent to ensure your destruction, he would have done so already and taken his leave? That the very presence of myself and my associates only benefits such a plot? For shame, Mr Ross. He cannot very well return to his superiors having left all sorts of classified information within the reach of an enterprising extra-legal group of businessmen, can he? Before he kills you, he must preclude such an outcome, meaning he must either eliminate the data, which you would only facilitate under prolonged and extreme duress, or he must eliminate the threat my organisation poses. The latter is clearly the easier option, simpler still with you intact and assisting his efforts. His employers want to erase all record of what you know, whilst mine wish to preserve it. You must realise which is more to your advantage..."_

Warily, Thaddaeus assessed the movements of the journalist as, now leading the way, Simon carefully removed the obstacle the grille represented, before lowering himself into the corridor, rifle poised. The assassin could discern no more of an emotional response than moments earlier, when he had been trying to convince the Canadian journalist himself. He followed the man down, located the camera watching the section of corridor, and raised his pistol-

Ross beat him to the sabotage, wrecking the camera with several rounds from his rifle. The Englishman winced at the noise, but for the moment his hypothesis had been correct; they were left alone with the sealed entrance into the maintenance and emergency stairwell. It did not remain sealed for long under prolonged close exposure to the thin stream of plasma generated by Shepard's omnitool fabricator. Voices and footsteps, muffled and urgent and increasing in volume, made their way up to greet him from the bottom of the shaft; there was little doubt that those already on their level were on their way as well.

The N7 stepped forwards and leaned carefully out to observe the spiralling pattern of thugs making their way up, most of them from near the bottom deck. Turning to his companion, he quietly instructed "Head down as quickly as you can."

"What are you going to do?"

"Lead by example," came the reply as the marine, and maybe murderer, casually vaulted the guard rail and dropped into the narrow abyss.

Ross took a moment to absorb the situation, and swore vehemently.


	19. Separation

A/N: Apologies for the wait; originally I intended for this chapter to be the last of this scenario, until it grew to rather gargantuan proportions and I decided to cut what I had roughly in half and upload this whilst finishing the rest.

* * *

Separation

A microsecond after the ship's artificial gravity had carried him out of Ross' line of sight, Shepard's tactical cloak flickered into operation, and enabled him to pass over a dozen hijackers as they rushed up the stairs towards the lone, increasingly panicked journalist, before Thaddaeus deactivated the stealth device once again. The first to become aware of his presence, if only in the most general of terms and then only for a moment before he lost consciousness, was the thug the assassin used to break the fall, increasing the duration of the impact and thus reducing the potentially lethal force transferred. Given that he was the final pirate in the formation, and the last left on the lowermost deck, it was unlikely he'd be awakening any time soon, or consuming anything other than soft foods for the rest of his inevitably dreary existence.

His nearest comrades heard the muffled thud and grunt behind them and turned to check on their colleague, only to see the indistinct shadow looking in the same direction for the source. Or so they thought until they discerned the inert form on which the man stood, which was incidentally the moment at which Thaddaeus span, omnitool glowing, Karpov raised, and opened fire. Softening his targets up with an intense burst of electromagnetic radiation, he felled one with a flurry of quick shots to the face, before overburdening the next man's shields as he dropped to his knees below the replying salvo. Then, it was the hostile forces who were encouraged to seek refuge from a barrage as the N7 scavenged the first criminal's fallen assault rifle and, bracing it awkwardly with his pistol-wielding right arm, let loose a prolonged burst of suppressive fire, rolling for the relative cover of the stairway as he did so.

Ignoring the shots coming in around him, but careful to keep an eye on the power source supplying his kinetic barriers, Shepard stowed his Karpov and dropped the stolen rifle, hands occupied with the holographic display of his microcomputer as he rapidly decoded the encryption safeguarding the opposition's communications, linking the transmissions to an earpiece and allowing himself a pleased twitch of the lips as he eavesdropped on their sudden confusion.

"_-the fuck is going on? Boss said the pair of them were up top!"  
"Are there more? I thought we got all the ship's security?!"  
"Too good to be one of those wankers; this is the N7. Orders are to take him alive. Moore, Volkov, move around and put some fire in over his cover, take his shields down but don't shoot to kill; force him into the open. Saunders, put a flash bang down there the moment he's vulnerable, then take Mensah and Gallo; get in close and put him out, tazer blasts and CQC. Weapons free, but shoot low and only if you have to. Morin, Khan, Cheng, hang back and assist as needed, the rest keep going up and take the journalist. __Schäfer has command."_

A string of acknowledgements rattled through the earpiece in the seconds it took for Thaddaeus to absorb the intelligence, note that they wanted _him_ alive and intact too, for whatever reason, and concoct his own countering moves to the enemy leader's reasonable, if rather conventional, battle plan. Nine for him; by his count that left five for Ross not including forces coming in from behind. Their best chance for overall success was a sustained blitzkrieg, which meant they had to retain strategic momentum and not get bogged down where they could be swarmed by reinforcements. No prolonged firefights; this would have to be quick.

The notion of depending on their unwillingness to apply lethal force grated with him, but as their key strategic flaw he'd be a fool not to exploit it. A final motion with his omnitool activated a protocol that disabled the automated cooldown of the power source that ran his shields; a risky move under ordinary circumstances, as whilst there was no danger of exhausting the power supply, overloading or overheating it would damage the generator irreparably. These weren't ordinary circumstances. Picking up the rifle again in a more stable two handed grip, as rounds seared in over his cover to be deflected by his barriers, Thaddaeus made his move.

Not out into the open killing ground, as was desired and expected, but _up_, a hail of fire from his weapon felling the nearest of the hijackers and sending the others back diving around the next corner to make their escape. Shepard let them go, for the time being; released one hand from its grip on the rifle and moved his aim to suppress others on the levels above, halting his advance for an instant to snatch an object from the hand of the most recent corpse he had made. Priming the flash-bang, he cooked it for a second, judging his throw, then leaned out and tossed it up into the space through which he had fallen moments earlier. Turning away, he buffered his ears as best he could, keeping a mental count-

"Watch the centre!" He barked into the enemy comm channels, less than a second before the grenade detonated, nearly perfectly in the centre of the enemy squad. Oaths and cries of dismay replied as a dozen pirates were blinded and disoriented, but the grenade ought to have been low enough to leave Ross unscathed, if not his attackers. The assassin allowed himself an instant to further loot the body of the man next to him, apparently an explosives and ordnance specialist, finding another flash bang and three other grenades of a less identifiable variety in that they had been tinkered with to disperse a payload of an unknown substance that could be anything from plasma to shrapnel or knockout gas. The appropriate moment quickly came to satisfy his curiosity when the dead man's companions, apparently not having been fooled by Shepard's ploy, stood up out of cover and unleashed a hail of close-range fire that strained his shields dangerously. Thaddaeus threw the device as soon as he activated the fuse and darted back to ensure that he was out of range of whatever would be released, risking a peek as-

A blue explosion of the kind one usually only associated with biotics blossomed outwards from the weapon, preceded by a concussive force that sent the two thugs flying. The N7 considered the sight for a moment, and concluded that the detonation must charge a payload of eezo before dispersing it, distorting the mass of anything within the blast radius and applying a displacing force whose effects would be vastly amplified. A good choice for shipboard combat; it had the potential to devastate the battle order of hostile infantry whilst causing minimal collateral damage to sensitive infrastructure like the hull of a vessel. He pocketed the remaining devices before snatching his rifle and moving up to finish his targets before they were able to regroup.

As he ascended, time inexorably passed and his opponents gradually regained use of their faculties. The first to be killed of those that had been poleaxed by the original grenade had yet to recover their full senses of sight or sound, or even any level of movement that required balance, and as such were stirring flaccidly, not even capable of finding their weapons let alone picking them up or using them with any degree of success, though given their opponent, Shepard felt that whether they would be successful even with full use of their faculties or not was not a matter truly open for debate. The next were aware of their surroundings, but unable to respond to the stimulus their senses provided. Still partially deafened, their loudly spoken curses and pleas for mercy only irritated the assassin as he approached to silence them. Up above he heard sporadic signs of a skirmish and quickened his pace.

This proved to be to his disadvantage when he was four decks up, hastily executing foes at point blank range, and he failed to make a rather key observation. The voice begging for clemency was the very same one that had not so long ago been coolly strategising to bring about his downfall, not a man to be broken by a mere flash bang, or to be fooled so easily by the command to stare in the direction of the device, in particular as the command didn't come from him. What's more, there was a note of falseness in his speech and ineffectual attempts to stand that Shepard didn't entirely process before-

The man suddenly glowed blue, and then so did Thaddaeus as he was hauled into the air and yanked sideways over the guard rail, towards a drop that would be rather more painful without a convenient buffer to break his fall. The squad leader's inner ear was still suffering from the effects of the earlier detonation, however, and he misjudged the movement, giving the assassin an ever so slight excess in velocity that allowed him to find a handhold one level down, at the cost of his assault rifle. Shoulders jarred by the impact, Shepard heaved himself back up and wrenched his Karpov out of its holster, directing precise, rapid fire at the enemy biotic as he clumsily got up to confirm that his attack had been successful. Reacting quickly, not trusting his shields or intending to save them the strain, or perhaps simply attempting to intimidate, the hijacker caught the rounds with a shimmering barrier before pulling a volatile blue orb out of the air and hurling it at him. Far from eager to be the means through which he discovered what the projectile did, Shepard was forced to make a somewhat undignified dive away from the sphere's destination, before rolling to his feet up the ridged incline.

Spinning to face his adversary once more, the assassin ducked into what cover was offered by the banister, seeking refuge from the projectiles launched by the shotgun that the pirate had retrieved with his moment's window of opportunity. Careful to keep his extremities within the narrow angle of shelter his cover provided, the N7 carefully sidestepped upwards, closing with the enemy; his intent to overwhelm the biotic's concentration and defences long enough to detonate a grenade within his immediate vicinity. Taking a moment to ready the 'incineration' subroutine on his fabricator, Shepard then surged into the open, and managed to visually process two things in the fragments of a second that followed.

First; even as he discharged his weapon and the payload of plasma, the target of his offensive did _nothing whatsoever in response_. Didn't make a single move, just continued standing where he was, consumed by a cerulean field of energy, head tilted in such a way as to make Thaddaeus certain that beneath that helmet was a dangerous grin.

Second; suddenly the man _wasn't there anymore_, replaced by an indistinct blur. Shepard tensed to react in the attosecond between his realisation of what was about to happen and the event itself-

And then the enemy commander's charge connected and he was smashed backwards, colliding headfirst with the wall with brutal force and tumbling down several metres of stairs before coming to a halt. Adrenaline coursed through Thaddaeus' system alongside the pain, and he clumsily forced his body to its feet, his shields whining in protest at they took a spray of shotgun fire at point-blank range. A second one followed it, though the N7 managed to limit the damage done, lurching to one side and nearly losing his footing on the treacherous ground. It didn't take an intellect of Thaddaeus' calibre to realise that the biotic's weapon gave him a decisive tactical advantage that would need to be removed from the equation if victory was to be achieved. Inwardly cursing his own tinkering with his shields, the assassin attempted to shake off the lingering effects of the head trauma as he detonated an overload.

His opponent's electronics shut down before their components could be reduced to sparking slag, immediately beginning to reboot the moment the pulse ended. Shepard's shields, however, modified by his own hand, failed to activate the failsafes, and shut down permanently. His adversary chuckled as his helmet's HUD informed him of this, before glowing blue and launching himself _again_-

Except _this_ time, Shepard was ready, and in far too much danger to consider anything other than the most viciously unadulterated and brutal response available to him. A trick he recalled from an old acquaintance, an old victim. Charon, as a matter of fact. At the moment of impact his left hand, encased in the orange hologram of his omnitool, was planted firmly against his armour, running a powerful electrical current through it, overcoming the insulation, scorching and shocking the wearer simultaneously. The side effects of throwing concentrated nodes of element zero into the mix in the form of the charging enemy biotic, however, made these consequences seem positively mild in comparison.

The flow of charge, free from the manipulation of the human nervous system, unrestrained by the brain's leash, produced mass effect fields as it made contact with the deposits of foreign mineral in the foe's flesh, blooming out in all directions, robbing the charge of its lethal momentum. These fields also seemed to rip the man apart from the inside. The gore and viscera were imprisoned by the man's heavy armour, of course, but the man's agonised shriek spattered signs of it from his mouth that were sufficient to obscure the sight of his pleading eyes through the visor. Despite himself, Shepard winced. He might actually have been grateful for the fact that his own eezo deposits were so evenly distributed, were it not for the fatal implications of any attempted conscious use, or the fact that there was no-one to be grateful _to_. Mutation like this was random, causeless, and couldn't even be credited to his biological parents.

Groaning as he moved to retrieve his weapon, Thaddaeus' distorted senses suddenly screeched that he was under fire, and he realised that he had failed to adhere to the objective he had formulated earlier; that of retaining strategic momentum. The remaining criminals had been afforded time to recuperate and were once again on the offensive. Still unarmed, the now unfortunately unshielded assassin went for the grenades in his pockets, spinning to seek the enemy as he ducked out of their now considerably more dangerous line of fire-

Which slackened for a moment and then ceased entirely as an intense barrage targeted the assassin's aggressors, sending them scrambling for cover, though not quick enough to escape the hastily thrown eezo grenade which knocked them down once more, easy targets to be finished by the journalist-

Who instead advanced on the two fallen hijackers, instructing them to kick their weapons away down the stairs with a terse jerk of his rifle, before abruptly unleashing two further bursts that, judging by the outraged cries of pain, shattered one of the kneecaps of each. Whilst the thugs were occupied with their writhing, Ross deftly relieved them of their omnitools and a couple of doses of medigel, despite the fact that a treatment wouldn't mend bone or cartilage or repair the joint, before continuing on his way downstairs to join his ally. Shepard gritted his teeth; he didn't want to leave any witnesses behind at the end of this fiasco, but Simon had removed any legitimate justifications for executing them besides that, which would to all intents and purposes amount to a confession that after the hijackers the Canadian would be his next victim.

"Nice work." He commented mildly, not having to force a note of surprise into his voice, though he struggled to fake any hint of pleasure. He might have enjoyed the prospect of a little intrigue were it not for the annoyance of the pain that had infested his system that was admittedly his own fault – and all the more aggravating for that. "Are you injured?"

"I'm fine. Thank you for your assistance," Ross replied blandly, suppressing his breathing and ignoring the pounding in his ears, looking entirely as if he were on a gentle stroll. Both men knew that to the casual observer, it would be the N7 who seemed the weaker and the worse for wear.

"And you yours." Thudding footsteps and indistinct voices sounded above them, and both men hastened downwards, Thaddaeus stooping mid-stride to retrieve his Karpov. "I wouldn't expect more than token resistance down here; the numbers behind us _have_ to constitute the majority of their forces or they'd be hitting targets bigger than this with that kind of manpower. That said, keep your eyes open. It can only take one shot to reverse the momentum of an entire campaign." He ought to know; after all, he'd been on the receiving end of a couple, and delivered a few more.

"Just one thing," Ross began as the pair reached the bottom and headed for the hatch that would leave them on the lower deck proper, the marine directing him to pause in cover on the left with a quick gesture. "How exactly do we find this hacker now?"

Air was expelled from Shepard's nose with an inaudible hiss, before he gave the reply that neither of them wanted to hear. "We look. Search pattern, check every room, fast and thorough." The duo each glanced, of their own accords, back up at the reason that answer was so daunting; the reason that would be snapping at their heels momentarily.

A quick nod was exchanged. Thaddaeus twisted so that half an eye peered into the gap, for half a second, then moved back, eyes shut against further stimulus so that he could analyse what he had seen. He pulled out the final eezo grenade, primed and tossed it through the opening, into enemy territory. All without looking, his eyes still shut. A second that felt like aeons passed, before at the exact moment of detonation, without pause or hesitation or any sign that he needed to nerve himself, the N7 slid out of cover and through the hatchway, squeezing off a two-shot burst mid-motion. The journalist's throat contracted briefly, and then he followed.

The barrier he crossed seemed more fundamental than a partition between spaces with different purposes, or even critical structural support. Suddenly, the journalist couldn't help but perceive it as a barrier between two separate universes; one, his point of origin, where the moments crawled, the other where time accelerated to the point that every motion was a blur too fast to follow. The world itself took on this peculiar quality as Ross copied the motions of the nearest animated, indistinct shape, the shape that he hoped against hope was a friend, not just an ally of temporary convenience.

To the best of his ability, Simon could discern three other such objects. These would be the opposition. Presumably all had been sheltered in the cover of doorways, positioned to produce something of a crossfire to discourage any who would advance out of that hatchway at approximately eleven, twelve and three o'clock. Three o'clock lay in the open, wisps of blue light dissipating around him, scrabbling for his weapon. That was the way the friendly (or benign at least) blur went. It followed the path of least resistance without hesitation or compromise, as remorseless as a river carving its path out of the landscape or some other inhuman force of nature. And Ross ran the wake of the eye of the storm, just outside of the zone of crystalline clarity, his human mind screaming at every lethal shard of metal he could sense ripping through the air around him, making him fire back wildly at Eleven and Twelve for the forever and the fragment of an instant that he ran through their line of fire. It didn't seem to do much, but then if it had been likely to, the N7 would have been doing it himself. Instead he directed his own projectiles at Three, rattling him and removing his shields as the duo approached. The criminal managed to recover himself and his weapon, if not his footing, with a precious few feet separating him from his foes-

And then that distance shrank to nothing at all as Thaddaeus dropped into a skid, legs reaching out in order to grasp the firearm pointed at himself and his companion and wrench it around into a less harmful direction, his momentum carrying him forward as his coat extended out behind him, the leather held back by friction with the floor, Karpov pistol supported in two unwavering hands that waited until they could touch the enemy if so directed, before one finger contracted and the hijacker was just a collection of various organic compounds contained in a reinforced ceramic coffin that was shaped like a man. Without even having come to a halt, Shepard surged to his feet and slammed into the nearest alcove, the one that had been occupied not fifteen seconds ago by the corpse at his feet. The journalist staggered to a halt beside him, and took cover on the opposite side of the corridor, not two seconds before either Eleven or Twelve appeared around the corner and sent another flurry of fire down the corridor between them.

Ross, seeing that his companion was occupied with cutting his way through the first door, clipped off several bursts from a stable kneeling position, and as such was able to drive the hijacker back into cover, keeping him there with further suppressive rounds. Then, the elements of the criminal forces that had pursued the two men from the upper levels advanced out into the lower deck and it was Simon's turn to be suppressed as one thug with a riot shield provided mobile cover to two other hostiles.

"_Give yourself up, Mr Ross. Surely you can now see that your position is hopeless. You cannot possibly hope to locate me now, and matters will run smoother and a great deal less unpleasantly for all concerned if you lay down your arms willingly."_ The infuriatingly smooth voice of the hacker somehow reverberated in the journalist's ears even above the thundering retorts of firearms. A frustrated growl tore itself from his throat; whatever the true status of his supposed ally and assassin, he wouldn't cooperate with the scum whose criminal status he was actually certain of.

"Grenade out!" The marine barked, and tossed out his final item of heavy ordnance, the explosive clipping over the top of the thick slab of metal that was making its way towards them and detonating with a searing flash and concussive report immediately afterward. Turning his back to the empty room in order to meet Ross' expectant gaze, Shepard jerked his head in a disgusted order to retreat further back down the corridor. Ignoring the other doors that lined the passage due to the need to put some distance between them and the enemy force, which was already contracting to deploy thugs unaffected by the grenade, the two men sprinted for the next junction, the next corner which would offer them maybe a dozen seconds of movement unimpeded by enemy fire. All the while, Shepard was brainstorming strategies, finding a critical fault with each and every one and casting it aside to begin the process anew. The duo altered their vector by ninety degrees and found that their arrival had been mirrored by two further hijackers, one of whom Shepard recognised from the group that had welcomed them to the lowermost deck. Unlike the assassin and the journalist, their opponents had their weapons already raised and readied, failing to hesitate even for a trice before they sent rounds cutting through the air at knee height, playing to maim and incapacitate and no longer simply to subdue. Their targets had no choice but to weave and meander to throw off their assailants' aim, before being forced to abandon their advance entirely and make use of the nearest shelter.

Thaddaeus reviewed his options once more and found none that could allow him to secure the hacker and deal with the boarders whilst he was being herded into ambush after ambush. There was only one advantage left to him that the hacker was not yet aware of and thus couldn't counter, just one device remaining that offered a means to victory. Sacrificing his surprise contingency was not a move he wanted to make lightly, but the situation required it. Now the key question was one of how to drastically alter the dynamic of the battlefield with the window of opportunity offered, and in their current environment the most extreme approach was an obvious one...

Twisting out of cover, he clipped off a few rounds at one of the hijackers, easily causing his shields' cooldown protocols to activate, at which point his intended victim retreated out of the line of fire to allow his barrier to recover. The reduction in volume of suppressive fire offered Shepard a window to lunge across the corridor for the journalist's cover. "I've got an idea," he announced laconically, forestalling any questions. "Our current approach will not bring success; we need to clear the corridors of hostiles before we'll be able to perform the kind of systematic search that will allow us to locate their hacker. We need to split up." Immediately, suspicions began to race through Ross' mind, though he was careful to keep his face rigidly unresponsive. "Cover me whilst I hack this door, then after I've gone, hold them back as long as you safely can before sealing yourself in. I'll send you an encrypted transmission, and if you aren't in already I'd advise you rectify that quickly, else you'll shortly be breathing hard vacuum."

"An airlock..." Simon realised. "But how-?"

"State secret." The marine replied with a sardonic smirk, bringing up his omnitool. Ordinarily it would have been a quick job, but with the hacker in control it wouldn't be as simple as circumventing a commercial standard firewall, particularly if he wanted to retain control of the door mechanism. And yet time was something of the essence, so he was forced to resort to pre-programmed bot subroutines that ought to be good enough to buy sufficient time as opposed to completing things to what he would deem to be of a proper standard. Behind him, Ross traded rounds with the pair before them to little avail, looking for the arrival of the main force at a frequency of about one hertz and seeing their arrival on the seventh repetition. Hearing the sudden increase in weapon retorts, the N7 leaned out of cover mid-hack, and fired at the lower concentration of boarders, freeing the journalist's automatic weapon for more effective suppression of the enemy group composed of greater numbers.

They couldn't have endured the situation for long.

They didn't have to.

A light on the cabin door blinked from red to green, and it hissed open. Stepping in so as to be fully out of the hijackers' line of sight, Shepard met Ross' gaze steadily. "When this is over, you will be required to sign the Official Secrets Act." He deadpanned, and with a gesture on his omnitool, disappeared. It was all the journalist could do not to gape openly, a cold void settling at the pit of his stomach with the revelation of what that kind of technology could mean for the government – and what it would mean for their citizens' freedom.

"_Mi scusi,_" The assassin muttered mockingly, in monotone, soulless Italian, as he brushed past his target out into the corridor, ducking the rounds the enemy unknowingly sent his way as he strafed away from their target. Opposite the pair that had greeted them earlier, their pursuers had deployed across the passage, two legionaries sheltering four armed thugs, carefully moving up whilst maintaining their formation. If that wasn't dealt with, Ross would be forced to seal himself in long before a minute had passed, at which point the hijackers would be free to attempt to breach, which they might be able to do before Thaddaeus could breach the airlock's security protocols and let in the hostile void in which the vessel was immersed.

The key was to break their formation quickly, without losing the advantage cloaking would offer him in the pursuit of his second objective. This in mind, the N7 stowed his Karpov, which would be unable to circumvent enemy shielding, and drew a pair of lightweight non-metallic combat knives from sheathes concealed beneath his coat. The leftmost man in the formation, currently leaning around the side of the legionary's shield in order to keep Ross' head down with a steady stream of rounds, had neglected to don a helmet. It was an unfortunate decision for him.

Within the space of a second, the weighted blade that had been held in the assassin's left hand had relocated to take up residency in the thug's right eye, the tip firmly embedded in neural tissue, the hilt protruding straight up into the air at a perfect ninety degree angle from where the man had fallen, and its owner was tearing forwards to exploit the situation. A metre from the portable metal blockade, Thaddaeus leaped up into the air, angling his jump to the left to collide with the wall, limbs contracting to cushion the impact, before with a grunt of exertion, he launched himself back off of the hard surface, in doing so gaining the altitude to clear the top of one of the metal slabs and fall into the space created by his latest victim. On his way down, he had utilised some of his kinetic energy to drive the point of the dagger _straight through_ the plating on the shield-bearing criminal's shoulder, shearing through skin, muscle and sinew to leave the implement lodged in the cartilage of the joint. Needless to say, the legionary dropped his burden with an agonised yell, staggered sideways into his colleague, clutching at the injury.

_Objective completed._

The hijackers around him reeled at the realisation that an adversary had breached their tight formation and incapacitated two men whilst remaining completely unseen, giving them no opportunity to respond. By the time they had closed ranks properly to let loose a volley, still under fire from Ross and jostling to avoid the shots that came their way, Shepard had nearly completed his advance on the opposite pair, snatching one of the men by the arm before dropping in order to throw them over himself, interposing the thug between his unshielded form and the deliberately low bombardment from the other end of the corridor. The exposed face of the pirate was shredded as his kinetic barriers were brushed aside and his armour rent in a dozen places, but only the odd stray round made it past the assassin's cover, and none had the remaining force necessary to breach his own lightweight protection.

The moment the enemy fire slackened, Thaddaeus released the corpse, and scrambled into a run at the remaining criminal, noting the sealed rebreather unit protecting the man's head and deploying his pistol as he did so, veering to the side in a conservative effort to avoid the thug's blind, panicked fire. Left hand knocking the weapon aside before seizing at his target's throat, Shepard slammed into his opponent and unloaded several rounds at point blank range into the vulnerable join in the armpit of the armour that allowed movement, quickly penetrating the defensive layer and ripping a destructive path through heart and lungs. Dying, the man fell backwards around the corner, still being pushed by the N7, who quickly relieved the corpse of his helmet before continuing on his way.

* * *

In front of the monitors linked to the ship's surveillance systems, the hacker stared at the footage, deep in thought. Unsurprisingly, this N7 had proven to be rather troublesome, yet even the damage he had already inflicted would be more than offset by the value of obtaining him alive – and damage control wasn't yet enough of a concern to outweigh the loss of value associated with settling for him dead. Particularly if they could obtain this stealth technology essentially intact...

Absently, the man gazed at the recently expired corpse of one of the men he had set to waylaying Ross and the marine, now missing his headgear. Why would this assassin (the man had no doubts regarding the purpose of such a formidable individual on this ship, apparently unlike his target; he and his associates had been far too circumspect to attract that kind of attention) scavenge such an item _now?_ Perhaps as protection in light of his unshielded state, but equally he could have done the same in the aftermath of the skirmish on the stairs. Perhaps, then, the key was both the _nature_ of the helmet and the man's intentions-

With a pang of realisation, the infiltrator opened a channel to the ship which now hung alongside the transport in the void, in a state of co-dependent symbiosis.

"Get to the airlock. _Now._"


End file.
